


Condo in the Woods

by Strangeredlantern



Series: Condo in the Woods [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Attacks, Derek is still the alpha, Isaac has a dog, M/M, Minor Injuries, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD attack, Past Relationship(s), canon through season one, mentions of past minor character death, minor bleeding, summer story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1552946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strangeredlantern/pseuds/Strangeredlantern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott gets here in four weeks, hopefully bringing some supernatural answers with him. That leaves Stiles four weeks to figure out Isaac. Why he’s here in Bear Valley, why he’s a werewolf, and why his eyes changed from blue to gold and back again not fifteen hours ago over Camden Lahey’s dog tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thanks to [Vague_Shadows](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows) and [Isaacpup](http://isaacpup.tumblr.com) for encouraging me and looking this story over. They're incredibly intelligent, talented people, and you should definitely check their work out. Any additional mistakes and typos you might notice are all mine, and are no reflection on their fabulousness.

_Where do you even get all these license plates?_ Stiles thinks to himself as he looks around the diner, impressed that the colorful metal rectangles have been turned into a wallpaper of sorts, some of the plates hammered to fold over corners and chopped up to fit in strange spaces. 

Really he’s trying to interest his mind in anything but the people in this diner, mainly because he’s too tired from finals and the ass numbing drive out here. A small rational voice deep inside Stiles tells him that after a solitary, boring four hour drive that Stiles should be tired, to focus on his weird boysenberry and chocolate milkshake and get out of here and up to the condo. His mind stops for nothing, not even his own exhaustion, and the little voice telling him he’s really too tired to memorize the place is overshadowed by his interest in soaking the whole place up.

Mel’s Diner is a pretty busy place for being in the middle of po-dunk nowhere, a few hours outside of Yosemite. No one comes up to this part of NorCal unless they live here. And Stiles will be. At least for the summer to watch over the condo before he can make his triumphant return to the real world. Living up here with all the lumberjacks and hippies would be a nightmare. No, this summer is going to be a quiet fresh start. No supernatural shit, no boyfriend drama, and most importantly, no awkward exes for at least a hundred miles.

Stiles is shocked out of his half-reverie of the license plates by the sound of spilling metal, if that can even be classified as a sound. It sets the whole restaurant on edge, heads popping up from burgers and shakes and fries to locate the sound of the crash as a hush rushes over the place. The novelty only lasts for a few seconds, since the source of the spill isn't obvious. The silence is swallowed up by a new surge in conversations around the diner, the discomfort in the air overshadowed by the rush to fill the silence by Mel’s patrons.

There’s no meal partner for Stiles to fill in his awkwardness, since Scott won’t be showing his face until his semester ends in a few weeks. It’s fine though. Stiles can entertain himself. He looks over to the counter surrounding the kitchen and he finds the source of the crash from the glint of a few stray spoons and knives that escaped the fall from the counter to the floor. There’s a bit of a tense, silent commotion going on behind the counter, and Stiles settles into what looks like someone about to lose their temper. 

Stiles wraps his fingers around his white styrofoam cup, chewing the shit out of his straw as he watches the show begin.

There’s a girl with straight brown hair backing a kind of massive dude into the corner of the space behind the counter, right by the employee entrance and exit. Stiles wishes he had bat hearing, because cute guy with the curls looks like he’s getting a stern talking to from the tiny girl with brown hair, one of her hands pushing him into the wall, the other hand close to cute guy’s face. He looks a terrified mouse cornered by a cat despite his height, and Stiles smiles just a little around his mangled straw. It’s like watching a bad silent movie.

The cheery lighting of the bar causes some of the silverware to glint as a couple of other employees begin to bunch it up, dumping the utensils back into the beat up gray tub that undoubtedly held the silverware before Cornered Mouse fucked it up. They’re casting nervous glances over to the corner though, and the silverware doesn’t hold Stiles’ gaze for more than a few seconds before he investigates what the clean up crew is so worried about. Turns out, what’s happening to Cornered Mouse is way more interesting. As the silverware gets back to where it belongs, Cornered Mouse against the wall looks like he’s flinching, and his eyes are closed as Angry Cat fists both of her hands in the white Mel’s Diner t-shirt and continues to give him the what for.

God. It’s just silverware, Stiles thinks to himself. If his boss is really that angry about it, then she should let the guy help clean up, not terrorize him in front of the customers at the bar, or the rest of the restaurant for that matter. Stiles looks up and away, trying to distract himself with the license plates. He’s counted 37 of the 50 states around the diner before his curiosity gets the better of him and he glances back over to the bar, only to find the silverware cleaner uppers taking care of customers in the wake of Cornered Mouse and Angry Cat, who are no longer anywhere to be seen. 

Stiles knows he should really be on his way, the food was delicious but he should get to the condo before the sun goes down. And by the consistency of his milkshake, he’s been sitting here, staring, for way too long. He just can’t help himself though. The two behind the counter, incredibly hot impressions of Samuel L. Jackson and Marilyn Monroe (ok not exactly but they might as well be models) are too fascinating to not spend at least another minute of time here. He can’t hear anything above the rumble of the diner, but it’s clear that Marilyn and Samuel are upset about what just happened with the silverware. But it’s more than that. The way they move together, constantly brushing up against each other with such ease, fills Stiles with a strange happiness before it all kind of crashes down. As if he’s ever going to have that kind of ease with another human being ever again. Stiles is an accident waiting to happen, better on paper than in practice. Anyone outside of Scott only seems to be friends with him because they feel sorry for him.

Stiles spits out the decimated straw, considering it’s so wrecked from his angry treatment of it that he can’t even finish his soupy milkshake. He leaves fifteen dollars over the black tray holding his check that was delivered to his table over twenty minutes ago by Marilyn. He’s been staring for too long.

He pats his pockets on the sly as he slides out of his booth, making sure he isn’t leaving his keys or phone behind. At the last minute Stiles leans over and pulls a napkin out of the scratched metal dispenser at the head of the table and writes out a message to the staff with the pen left behind on his tray. They really shouldn’t yell at the new guy like that. Customers notice these things. And with that, Stiles heads for the double glass doors, his eye catching on one of the hand drawn taped up signs on the door right above the handle. There’s a delicately drawn wolf/dog howling up at a moon, the text underneath in a neat script. “See you again sooooon!”

************************************************************

Isaac is still moving around the outskirts of the dining room, looking guilty as fuck as he pulls the chairs off the ground and turns them to sit on top of the tables. Cora shakes her head and looks back at where she’s sweeping, pulling out the fallen debris from underneath one of the booths. A basically unused napkin catches her eye, and she pulls it out of the pile of her other sweepings to inspect.

She smiles as she reads the angry scrawl, propping her broom up against the booth seat as she beckons Erica over from her meticulous polishing of the counter/bar.

They hunch conspiratorially over the napkin that Cora’s spread out over the table, reading the message together, as Erica offers a weak smile to Cora. 

“I told you he was watching us! It looked like he was going to swallow his straw he was so angry!”

Cora misses most of Erica’s muted hissings, abandoning the napkin in favor of watching Isaac finish off the last of the chairs on the opposite side of the restaurant from her. He’s come a long way, Cora thinks, from when they found him a month or so ago in the back. Who could possibly turn away such a devastated face, even if it was being dragged by the collar into the kitchen by a very stern and confused Boyd.

They really shouldn’t treat him like a child, but sometimes, especially after the silverware today, it’s so difficult to swallow the cooing instincts and tread lightly around him. Boyd pulled Cora aside just a few days ago, told her that Isaac had been drawing on the back of the paper placemats again, mostly indecipherable comics that involve him somehow disappointing everyone on staff. Especially Cora, according to Boyd. Boyd makes it his mission to say as little as possible, and Cora takes the information, and the subtle warning to heart. 

“You know I’m not angry with you, don’t you Isaac?” Cora’s barely raised her voice, but it startles Isaac anyways, and he only just manages to grab onto one of the upturned legs of a chair before he completely knocks it off the table. It’s awful when he gets all jumpy like this. Everyone else on the staff suffers too. 

“I know. I-I’m sorry, Cora.” Isaac speaks loud enough to be heard from across the room, and it’s still a bit of a mystery, Isaac’s insane everything. His hearing, his strength. Erica’s turned around from the napkin too and they smile across at him before they take off to help Boyd finish cleaning the kitchen turning in for the night.

“Hey Flash, move your ass, we’re all leaving!” It still bothers Cora that Isaac is less afraid to acknowledge Erica than he is to answer herself, but she reminds herself that she’s not going to ever completely understand their adopted helper, and she’s just going to have to wait it out and be patient like everyone else, slowly finding out clues of who the hell their Isaac really is. She smiles over at Erica before looking over to Isaac as they retreat to the kitchen, staring under the stove vent, watching him meander through the rest of the dining room before following them out. He’s finishing off the tables and looking at the napkin left on one of the booths across from the bar, resting his fingers over it before balling it up and jogging through the upturned chairs to meet the rest of the crew at the back door of the kitchen. 

“I know you weren’t, you wouldn’t…” Isaac’s words get kind of stuck sometimes, and Cora looks around to find Isaac with his head ducked down as everyone else files out of the restaurant, Erica and Boyd hanging back from the rest of the parked cars, watching the exchange nervously.

Cora can feel Isaac hovering in her periphery as she locks up the big metal door, pocketing the key before slowly turning to face Isaac under the deep yellow light of the surrounding parking lot lights. Her reach couldn’t be more hesitant, but she manages to land a light palm on his shoulder, and she ducks a little bit to catch his eyes before straightening up again, his head rising to follow her gaze. “Hey. S’okay, Flash. We’ll see you tomorrow, ya?”

Isaac only barely flinched at the contact, and Cora counts that as a victory before she catches his nod, and Isaac raises his hand to briefly rest over her own, the barest hint of a smile flickering over his features in the dim light. “See you tomorrow Wonder Woman. Later Catwoman, Icon.” Erica and Boyd each get a nod before Isaac’s hand drops, pulling Cora’s along with it, and he turns away, taking off just like Flash. 

Before the three of them have a chance to even offer Isaac some sort of ride to wherever he lives, Isaac turns away and sprints towards the tree line. The gravels crunches under her black vans as Cora turns to the other two, the look on her face enough to silence them as she catches up and they round the corner of the restaurant towards their cars. Almost eight weeks with Isaac, and they still can’t get a last name out of him, or where he disappears to every night. 

************************************************************

Isaac makes it through the trees with no trouble just as usual, finding his usual peace with the moonlight and the soft spring of the leaves as he runs by. Dodging the trees as he picks up speed reminds him of his time with Camden on the back of the bike, an element of danger, but way too much fun to abandon the idea completely. He clips close to the trees, slowing down as he enters the wide-open valley, slowing down to a brisk jog as he moves past the hotel part of the Bear Valley Timeshare and Resort, the warmly lit lodge calling out to him. Although since the electricity in his appropriated condo was turned on this month for some strange reason, Isaac is looking forward to getting back to the closest and most permanent thing he’s called home in the past eight months.

It's only about eleven as far as Isaac can figure, but he moves quietly as he ascends the small apartment-like structure, walking down the open hall to the empty condo. Well, not exactly empty. There’s a wooden plaque next to the door just like all the others. Only, this particular one, number thirty-nine, smelled of disuse and general sadness, so Isaac figured the ‘Stilinski’ family has either outgrown it or forgotten about it. 

Isaac manages to slip into the condo and toe off the old Nikes he found here in the little entryway and make it all the way to the beat up blue couch before he hears it. Another heartbeat. It still freaks the shit out of him, all this strange stuff he can do, has been able to do for the past eight months or so.

Terror zigzags up his spine as he freezes, half poised to flop on to the couch. Most of the time Isaac is too scared to consider his ‘powers’ or whatever, but he’s pretty sure that the breathing he can hear from the loft above the kitchen and entryway is even enough to be considered sleeping.

A good ninety-seven percent of Isaac is screaming for him to run and never come back, but the remaining three percent, the part of him that’s made a home here, with friends and almost a life, propels him up the narrow set of stairs against the long wall of the condo, as quiet as a breeze.

There’s a boy, no, probably closer to Isaac’s age, sleeping in the queen bed, flat out on his back, his eyes moving rapidly underneath the most interesting and beautiful face Isaac has seen at the timeshare so far. So beautiful in fact, that Isaac forgets himself, and he pulls his hands from his jeans’ pockets, the napkin from earlier falling, forgotten on the worn carpet. There’s something so… Isaac can’t even find the words for him, for the intruder in the loft bed, and before Isaac realizes it, he’s leaning over the sleeping face, watching the moonlight from the circular window over the head of the bed shine over his-

All of a sudden the sleeping boy’s eyes are open, staring straight up in utter, heart pounding terror. The shock of it throws Isaac, he can’t retreat quickly enough, and then the lamp on the bedside table goes crashing as the boy in the bed advances over him. The noise of the heartbeats and the adrenaline and the smell of fear rushes up to overwhelm Isaac, and before he can even think to put his hands up there’s a body colliding into his, something cold and smooth being shoved under his neck, choking him against the paneled wall. 

“Who the fuck are you and why are you in my cabin?” Isaac’s head is being forced up by whatever is currently cutting off his air, the breath he tries to take almost impossible as he shuts his eyes to whatever is about to come.

Instead he’s released, and Isaac slumps onto the wall when his legs fail him, all of a sudden feeling like he’s been drugged. He dares to open his eyes from his pile on the floor, only to find the boy in pajamas, leaning one hand on the top of a baseball bat as he reaches down to pick up the napkin from earlier. The boy’s whisper is soft, so soft that Isaac shouldn’t be able to hear it, until he’s staring up at the beautiful boy who’s straightened up to read the napkin. 

“Cornered Mouse.”

Isaac, in the back of his mind, supposes that it’s a fair judgment of the situation. There’s nothing to do but wait, watch with fear and resignation as the guy with the baseball bat crouches down, brings the tip of the bat to rest over Isaac’s chest, hold him to the wall as he reaches out. He supposes that he should have run by now, or fought back or something, but his mind whites out with fear as long fingers wrap around his neck, the baseball bat pushing painfully into his ribcage as the chain around his neck is revealed, the dog tags glinting in the moonlight.

“Camden? Is your name Camden?”

The shock of hearing his name out loud after so long, and the protective rage that accompanies it inflames Isaac as he pushes the bat off his chest, snatching the tags back, holding them against his chest. He’s sure he sounds like a petulant child, a tone completely out of place in a situation like this. 

“NO.”

The other boy rocks back on his heels, a look of interest passing over his eyes before pushing up to stand, leaning one hand against the bat, looking down at Isaac, still pathetically curled against the wall by the stairs.

“So not just a home invader, then, but a werewolf too. Fabulous.”

The long fingers reach out to him again and before he can even flinch he’s being hauled up to meet the owner of this cabin face to face, everything moving so quickly the edges of the guy in front of him blur, and Isaac feels somewhere between incredibly high and impossibly heavy.

“Well, not-Camden, I’m Stiles, and you’re currently in my family’s vacation cabin. And you are?” There’s not a whole lot of menace in his tone despite the baseball bat still held loosely in his hands, but Isaac couldn’t answer if he tried. Stiles might as well have hit him over the head with that baseball bat. Finally he manages a response, as all the strange pieces of his life over the past eight months slip together.

“Werewolf?”

“Yes, I gathered that. But I’m guessing you come with a name too… which would be…”

Isaac doesn’t get to answer the question as the carpet rushes up to meet him, the last thing he hears, a distant ‘oh shit’ before he passes out. 

************************************************************

“-telling you, Scott, I’ve never seen eyes flicker like that…”

The last bit of the sentence fades away as Isaac fades back into consciousness. The guy, Stiles apparently, is on the phone with someone, and despite his hearing, he’s really only catching enough to understand that he’s not supposed to listen to what’s going on.

Stiles must have thrown the old quilt from the queen bed over him and left him by the stairs to the loft, and Isaac trips on it as the faded soft fabric falls to the ground as he rises. Isaac has every intention of heading down the narrow stairs and wringing some answers out of him, until he notices a fine line of black powder across the top of the stairs, continuing along the half wall that allows a view of the rest of the main floor of the condo.

Plaintive whining from down below grabs his attention away from the ash on the wall and the stairs, looking up at him through the sliding glass doors past the couch. Jay. Isaac completely forgot about Jay. It must be two in the morning by now, and she's probably staring at the empty room where the glass doors let into the basement like she's done something horribly wrong, something bad enough to keep her locked outside for the night.

Isaac reaches for the rail to head down the stairs, instead jamming his hand in the middle of the air. He can't touch the black dust stuff. Or move past it either apparently. 

"Hey! Stiles, or whoever, come out and let my dog in."

There's no response at all, so the guy is either ignoring him or can't hear him. Isaac's had plenty of time to study the layout of the Stilinski cabin, and he hears the heartbeat of Stiles up in the left corner, hiding out in the bathroom directly below. Isaac climbs on to the still unmade bed, prowling over it before standing up, bouncing a little before jumping off it to land as hard as possible over the left corner of the loft. A phone drops from what Isaac can hear. Good.

By the time Isaac has casually arrived at the balcony overlooking the living room, Stiles is staring up at him between the table and chairs and the coffee table, hand sternly around his phone as he folds his arms across his chest, the picture of nonchalance. 

"Any particular reason you decided to scare the shit out of me, Lahey?"

Isaac can't hide the shock of Stiles figuring out part of his name completely, but he leans down to rest his arms behind the black dust line, staring him down, trying to mirror him.

"How did you know that's my last name?" Not as confident as he would have hoped, but being stuck up in the loft along with being possibly held prisoner isn’t a great situation to find confidence.

The hand holding the phone unfolds from the other arm, and Stiles smirks up to him as he taps his own chest a few times. Isaac barely avoids the urge to look down at his own chest, where the dog tags dangle precariously close to the black line keeping him up here.

"It was a guess. Didn't know for sure until now. If you're not Camden, then who are you? And who's Camden? And how did you get in my cab-"

The whining and scratching that has been the background of the last three minutes has turned into distressed howling. Shit. Isaac can't let Jay take off and leave him. Who's going to listen to him talk to himself? If Jay's gone, Isaac's going to have no full moon companion, no one to pull him back to reality with a few licks to the face, no one to take care of...

But before Isaac can express any of that word vomit into something mildly intimidating to convince him to go investigate, Stiles has already jolted out of Isaac's sight, back under the loft and down the basement stairs to the bedroom with the glass doors, clearly to find the source of the howling himself. 

"A dog. You have a dog too?" 

The fact that Stiles knows that Isaac can hear him through the walls should unsettle him, but Isaac's more concerned with the howling than anything else at this point. 

Isaac yells as loud as he can from his captivity.

************************************************************

"Just let her in, let her come in and I'll grab my shit and I'll get out of here and take her with me."

God, Stiles wishes that was the case. Clearly Cornered Mouse/Not-Camden/Probably Lahey has no idea what to do with himself. Not necessarily a runaway, but almost certainly an omega according to Scott. A miracle, really, that the guy hasn’t gotten himself killed already, if Stiles could make him pass out with his mistletoe covered mountain ash bat. Stiles peers down at the husky pacing back and forth on the concrete slab outside his parents’ old bedroom. Maybe the dog has kept him sane on the full moons? Who knows.

“If you give me a name, I’ll let her in.”

Stiles was already going to let the dog in, he’s not completely heartless. Who knows what else is out there at two in the morning. He hears the name Jay hollered down to him, and really, he’s not deaf, God. Still, it’s what he wanted, and the moment the glass door is open enough to squeeze a body through, a huge black and white dog blurs through the room bounding right over the other line of mountain ash Stiles set around the whole condo. No thought is spared to Stiles as she tears through the room towards the basement stairs.

Stiles isn’t what one would consider ‘fast’, even on a good day, but he crashes after the dog up the stairs to the main floor, only to hear a much happier “Jay!” yelled from up in the loft. He makes it to the loft stairs in time to watch the husky collide with Probably Lahey, knocking him back from the top of the stairs, paws straight on top of him, licking his face. It would probably be cute except for the fact that Stiles is going to be denied a peaceful summer break because of this squatting omega and his exuberant husky.

“I meant _your_ name, not your dog’s.” How Stiles has managed to remain the picture of casual asshole in the face of such strangeness at two am is both strange, and oddly sad. This certainly isn’t his first encounter with the supernatural. Or an omega for that matter. Hopefully this one doesn’t end up as dead as the other ones. The sentence seems to ground the other guy at the top of the stairs, and Stiles slowly ascends them until he’s looking down at the suddenly very threatening husky, abandoning her post on her owner’s chest to growl at him as she advances towards him.

“Jay. Stop.” The words carry all of the same intensity that Scott’s have when he’s dealing with animals, and although Jay doesn’t seem convinced that she shouldn’t eat Stiles’ face-- right now she sits, her ice blue eyes staring him down, daring him walk up another step. After the long drive, the long semester, hell, the past two years, Stiles isn’t about to make it easy for her. He stays where he is, watching Not-Camden arrange himself slightly in front of Jay, sitting cross-legged on the old carpet, looking eye level at Stiles.

“Isaac.” 

The name fits him, Stiles thinks. Isaac. He lets it echo around his mind as he watches, fascinated that Isaac can’t seem to handle anyone looking at him for any amount of time, as he starts to squirm, pulling at the dog tags around his neck, his eyes flicking away from Stiles to the carpet, the wall, anything but himself really. 

“Well Isaac, if you want to stay here in this lovely condo of mine, you’ve gotta answer some questions.”

Stiles has never seen a face so innocently open like Isaac’s. He must be about Stiles’ age, but the mixture of shock and joy that passes over his face is something to behold before Isaac schools himself, a mask of practiced indifference taking its place. It’s still quite telling though, that Isaac reaches around to lay a hand on Jay before he answers.

“Depends. Are you going to keep me up here like Rapunzel, or do I get the whole condo?”

Isaac gestures to the line of mountain ash between them, managing a glance at Stiles’ eyes before he looks away again.

“Yeah man, whole thing. I already did the rest of the property.”  
Stiles can’t help the grin that comes with Isaac’s reaction to the latest statement, until he sees the genuine panic flash over the blue eyes, Jay reacting to Isaac’s distress. Oh shit.

“Isaac. I’m not an axe murderer. You don’t have to stay here if you hate it, but considering you’re probably an omega, you should meet Scott. He’s a werewolf and my best friend, he’ll be here at the end of his semester.”

************************************************************

“It’s not like I have anywhere else to go. Can I come down now?”

Isaac moves back to staring at the black line as Stiles’ long fingers break it. Stiles is weird. He can’t hear a regular heartbeat at any point, not like Cora, or Boyd, or Erica. He has no idea if this guy really is an axe murderer or not. Jay hasn’t attacked him yet, so that’s a good a sign as any to trust him. And something about Stiles’ manner, the ease in how he watches Isaac makes him think that Stiles has some experience, and some answers. 

Isaac pushes past Stiles on the stairs, Jay hot on his heels. Jay jumps to her usual middle cushion of the worn jean couch, and Isaac curls into his, watching Stiles from his vantage point at the end of the couch. “You going to give me the inquisition, or just stare at me from the stairs?”

There’s not a whole lot of leverage to be had in this situation, but there was no mistaking the way Stiles’ heart stuttered as Isaac pushed past him on the stairs. Maybe he’s a little bit scared of an unpredictable werewolf? He’ll take what he can get. Isaac’s never been a great actor, but if Stiles can hide all that jittery irregularity and make himself look calm most of the time, Isaac should be able to pull off latently-threatening.

************************************************************

Stiles finds himself frozen near the top of the loft stairs, because seeing Isaac in motion is like watching a black and white movie. His movements are hard and precise, but graceful and powerful, and Stiles hadn’t even realized he’d been staring until Isaac called him out. Fuck.

“It’s two in the morning. Go sleep somewhere; we’ll do this-” Stiles gestures vaguely between Isaac and himself “whenever I wake up. I’ve reached my limit for the night.”

Stiles makes sure to close the mountain ash circle again, knowing it’s just as effective at keeping werewolves out as it is keeping them in. Just before he’s completely settled, Isaac yells up at him, his voice filled with a kind of vindictive glee.

“I usually sleep up there.”

It scares the shit out of Stiles, waking him up from the half dream he was already beginning.

“Considering I own the place, and you’re stuck here, tough shit.” His voice is way too shaky from the surprise, his heartbeat pounding behind his eyes. 

Isaac’s laugh and Jay’s tail thumping from her place on the couch confirm that Isaac already knows how to listen for heartbeats, to tell when someone is about to fall asleep. Which means that Isaac definitely already heard Stiles’ reaction to him on the stairs. Hopefully Isaac doesn’t know what that means just yet. So what if the guy’s extremely hot. He’s also extremely dangerous. Stiles repeats it to himself over and over again as he falls asleep, wishing that if he thought hard enough, it would change the facts. 

Stiles wakes up seven hours later to find Isaac passed out on the couch with one arm off hanging over the edge, nestled in a sleeping Jay’s fur as she keeps watch from the ground. Stiles and Jay stare off as Stiles considers the facts from the loft, which despite his best efforts have not changed at all. Isaac is still beautiful, still an omega, still dangerous. And Stiles has no idea what he’s doing. 

Scott gets here in four weeks, hopefully bringing some supernatural answers with him. That leaves Stiles four weeks to figure out Isaac. Why he’s here in Bear Valley, why he’s a werewolf, and why his eyes changed from blue to gold and back again not fifteen hours ago over Camden Lahey’s dog tags.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Isaac make an attempt at figuring each other out over the first week in the condo. Neither of them have too much success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge thank you to [isaacpup](http://www.isaacpup.tumblr.com) and [Vague_Shadows](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows). They're incredibly talented and encouraging, and this story wouldn't have made it to a second chapter without them.

The weird thing about dreams, or at least the ones Isaac has, is that they’re such a warped replay of reality that he can’t usually tell if he’s awake or asleep. Unfortunately, the brighter the light gets in the living room, the less last night seems like a dream. Especially when Jay’s whine finally convinces him to open his eyes.

Stiles isn’t a dream, and he’s staring at Jay, who still hasn’t made up her mind to trust him yet. Neither has Isaac. There’s obviously a long speech at the tip of the other guy’s tongue as he descends the stairs from the loft and continues straight for the couch, his intention for answers written all over his face.

“When did you get bitten? And do you know who did it? How did you get into my condo, why the hell would you pick this exact-”

Isaac isn’t accustomed to headaches in the morning, much less ones being caused by incessant questioning. Jay gets up with him as Isaac moves to the front door to let her out, and he smiles to himself as he hears increasingly loud and frustrated questions trail behind him. There’s a fair amount of satisfaction to be found in surprising Stiles, Isaac is coming to find, and he turns sharply on his quest towards the door, making Stiles crash into him before he takes a quick step back smirking down at him silently when he lurches. Stiles manages to right himself and stare up at him in irritation, and Isaac cuts off the stream of questioning before it can begin.

“Open the door.” Stiles looks thrown for a second, as if he doesn’t understand why Isaac couldn’t do it for himself. Jay is whining and pawing the door though, and Isaac can almost imagine the puzzle pieces fitting together in Stiles’ mind as he suddenly starts towards the door, reaching around Isaac to let Jay scurry out over the black ash line. Isaac makes an aborted move towards the courtyard and parking lot before he’s warned back by Stiles’ almost predatory grin.

“You’re not going anywhere really, until you answer some questions.” Stiles is blocking the open doorway completely, one hand still grabbing the doorknob, the other gesturing to the line carefully laid out and unbroken on the ground. Isaac could shove Stiles aside, push him over the line of ash or whatever strange thing Stiles set up around the entire condo, but the pull to hide his desperation is stronger than the itch to grab Stiles.

He lets his shoulder hit the side wall, squaring himself up to Stiles as he crosses his arms. Fine, they can play this game. Cora doesn’t seem like the type to mind if Isaac is late. He’s never been late though, and Isaac doesn’t relish the idea that he’s going to find out if he’s right or wrong today. 

“Two questions, make them good.”

“And what makes you think I’m letting you out after just two?” The smugness in Stiles only convinces Isaac that he shouldn’t make it easy for the lanky guy blocking the door, compelling him to keep up the asshole routine.

“Because I know enough that if I grab you and force your hands down to that ash line and push it apart, you actually can’t keep me here.”

Isaac was going for threatening, but the elevated heartbeat that comes from Stiles with his words doesn’t exactly sound like panic. He can’t place it though, so instead he arranges himself with a smirk to rival Stiles, and waits for him to accept defeat.

“Where are you going?”

Success. Isaac inspects the ceiling, pushes his tongue against his cheek, takes a few seconds to make Stiles squirm before finally answering.

“The diner.” His eyes flick down to the white shirt he fell asleep in last night, judging it in good enough condition to last through day two.

“How’re you getting there?” Stiles looks like he’s about to crawl out of his skin, being limited to two questions, and somewhat pained. Like he’s just wasted his first two wishes on something really stupid. Too bad.

“I’m going to run, like usual.”

It seems like a passable answer to Stiles, who nods back at Isaac, and he moves from blocking the doorway to crouching down at the line, motioning Isaac over with a nod of his head.

“You should put on my dad’s shoes, can’t imagine that running in socks all the way to Mel’s is gonna be too fun…” The smile that Isaac receives on the end of that revelation is much less menacing than the first, and Isaac can feel his neck and cheeks heat with embarrassment as he abandons the wall to shove his feet in the old Nikes. Mr. Stilinski’s Nikes. Isaac isn’t going to give Stiles the satisfaction of apologizing for taking his father’s forgotten sneakers, and instead goes to stand next to Stiles, whose hands are poised to brush away some of the ash, his whole body crouched in a way that suggests Stiles is going to try and race him. Best of luck, Isaac preens to himself, taking off the moment Stiles moves his hands over the line of ash.

Or at least, Isaac thought he was taking off. He gets one foot over the line before his right ankle is caught by five somewhat sweaty and cold fingers, tripping him as his leg is pulled back towards the condo. Stiles rises from his crouch and advances on him from his peripheral vision and there’s not even a second to think before Isaac is backed up against the opposite side of the hallway, staring down in surprise at Stiles. Isaac could throw him off, certainly, but the unexpected strength and speed from Stiles makes him curious. Until Stiles gets up in his face.

“Derek’s gonna kill me if I lose an omega. I’ll drive.” The excitement of catching Isaac off guard again seems to drain right out of Stiles’ eyes, but Isaac can’t tell if it’s from the words he’s spoken or because Isaac can’t contain his flinch in reaction to the harsh words.

Stiles’ eyes leave Isaac’s, noticing his hands bunched into Isaac’s collar. He jerks away from Isaac with disgust, like holding Isaac to the wall is burning him. Isaac is quiet as he follows Stiles down the steps and off towards the only car in this particular section of the resort. The drive is suffocatingly quiet as Isaac stares out at the dense trees from the old jeep, wishing he could run off the nervousness (in his spine, his stomach, everywhere really) that Stiles created in Isaac against the hallway wall. It doesn’t leave after his six hour shift either, mutating into genuine interest after Stiles doesn’t leave the diner for Isaac’s entire shift. 

******************************************

The chocolate and boysenberry milkshake isn’t any better the second time, or the third, or the fourth. Stiles almost considers ordering a different flavour around 12:30 but he’s too distracted to really pay attention when his blonde server, Erica, he reminds himself, refills it for the fifth time. Stiles never wants to taste a boysenberry ever again. 

It’s worth it though, to get the chance to observe Isaac in his natural habitat. He even goes as far as to narrate Isaac’s actions in his own mind, observing his subject in the wild. Isaac is kind of clueless, Stiles decides. It’s not that he’s incompetent, but that it seems like the rest of the diner staff hover around him, do little things to help him while his back is turned. The scary little one, who upon further inspection is in fact named Cora, seems the most concerned but also the most confused. Like she doesn’t know how to deal with Isaac, doesn’t know what sets him off. She shakes her head a lot, keeping her gaze on whatever she’s carrying or doing instead of trying to watch Isaac herself. Isaac never actually makes it into the actual dining room. They keep him behind the counter. Did he terrify some poor unsuspecting customer? Does he usually not talk to people at all?

Stiles can’t see as much as he would like to, but from what he can gather in his little corner booth, Isaac hasn’t said more than twenty words over the first two hours as he moves around behind the bar. He’s not a server, but he doesn’t work in the kitchen either, and Stiles wonders if that’s just this particular shift or if this is always his job. Isaac completely disappears at one point, and Stiles gets half way out of his seat to investigate before the big scary guy from yesterday evening stares him down from the bar. It unnerves Stiles, to think that someone is watching him as closely as Stiles has been watching them. It’s Samuel L. Jackson from the other night, the one who worked so well with his server, formerly Marilyn Monroe, now Erica. 

Erica’s whispering frantically into the guy’s ear, holding him to her by his shirt sleeve, her eyes flicking over to Stiles, and he hurriedly looks away, embarrassed. Stiles manages to fascinate himself with a few surrounding customers for the next hour after sitting back down, mortified at being caught so blatantly. Not everyone is as clueless as Isaac to his staring, who thankfully returns, hopefully from his lunch break or something. Erica shows up to his table with a face that declares he should either order some real food or get out. So Stiles does, face hidden behind the menu that’s been sitting abandoned on the table for the better part of three hours.

“Order something.”

So no beating around the bush then. Stiles’ presence is both noticed and slightly unwelcome. Awesome, just what Stiles needed. Erica doesn’t look exactly mad but she’s definitely standing to block his view of the bar and of Isaac. By the time she saunters off with Stiles’ order of an avocado burger and fries, Stiles is completely caught up in his memories of the morning.

The worst part of the morning, Stiles muses over his fries and burger, was Isaac’s reaction in the hallway. Not the stifling silence, not his unwillingness to answer questions. That kind of reaction is something Stiles is used to. What he has no idea how to deal with is a werewolf who flinches. How is he supposed to be careful with a guy who could actually kill him with a well placed flick of the wrist? His thoughts circle around each other until he comes back to his original thought, glancing up from his empty plate. Why had Isaac flinched in the first place? Even more pressing than that question is why Stiles had decided spur of the moment to even grab Isaac at all. He never really wanted to become Derek. Appreciate the muscles, the mysterious gruffness, sure. Not start relationships off with fear and intimidation.

Mood severely dampened by the path his thoughts have taken, Stiles fails to notice the goings of the diner until he catches Samuel L. Jackson’s face, filled with a baffled sternness. The look only registers for a second before Stiles realizes there’s a person missing from behind the counter. Isaac. Isaac is gone.

********************************************

Isaac hears Stiles coming before he sees him, as he crashes out on to the porch of Mel’s, getting his arms tangled on the glass door handle before righting himself, his entire posture relaxing upon seeing Isaac.

The blue jeep has been keeping Isaac company for the past forty-five minutes. Isaac had thought of letting Stiles know that his shift was over, but Stiles was staring wistfully at his food. Going up to the table would also only fuel on Cora and Erica’s teasing, make Boyd even more suspicious than he already was. Stiles only seems somewhat dangerous, not enough to really hurt Isaac. If Isaac had come to any other conclusion during his shift, he would have forced Stiles out. The longer Stiles sat in the corner booth, the more Isaac found things to like instead of fear. Constant movement, a mostly innocent face, really nice hands… Isaac is lost in his thoughts as Stiles leans up against the other glass door across the parking lot, mirroring himself from earlier this morning.

Isaac smiles, pushing off the warm jeep door, spreading his arms out, indicating to nothing in particular. 

“Were you expecting me to run or…”

There’s no need for Stiles to answer, Isaac can see it all over his face, the relief at finding Isaac so easily. Isaac is disappointed with Stiles for a split second, that Stiles thought he would just take off. Then he remembers that Stiles doesn’t know him at all.

“Don’t move, I have to pay.”

Stiles disappears behind the closing door, and Isaac takes the spare two minutes between Stiles paying and Stiles joining him at the jeep to wonder if they might be able to work out a system. Isaac can answer questions if Stiles has some answers himself. In fact, he plans to propose it to Stiles as he hurries out from Mel’s, digging out the keys to the car and letting both of them inside. Isaac manages a breath before Stiles launches into conversation like he’s been starved of it.

“You can’t keep wearing my dad’s stuff from the nineties. It’s freaking me out, I keep thinking I’m staring at him instead of you. So we’re getting you something else. The options up here are limited, so we’re going to the grocery store. They have some stuff, nothing fashionable. Then we’re going to rob fake charities.”

Isaac releases the breath that he had taken, kind of astounded that Stiles managed all of that in one go.

“Rob fake charities?”

Stiles stays silent, raising an eyebrow as if daring Isaac to protest. Isaac wouldn’t mind owning more than three pairs of stolen jeans and Mel’s diner shirts. 

“Then why are we still sitting here? Sounds good to me. Let’s go.”

The carefully hidden look of shock from Stiles amuses Isaac to no end, and he takes note that neither of them are particularly good at hiding their reactions from each other. Apparently they’re going to keep up the charade though, because Stiles’ response is just as snarky as Isaac’s.

“We can’t rob donation boxes at four in the afternoon. We strike after nightfall.”

Isaac can’t help but smile a bit as Stiles laughs to himself as he starts the car to pull out of the parking lot and on to the small highway. The drive back to the condo is just as silent as the drive to the diner, but Isaac can actually breathe this time. Stiles reaches over to let his hand hover over the power dial for the radio. Isaac nods his permission and the car is filled with the slightly grainy quality of a mix cd that does it’s best to fill up the quiet until they pull up to the condo.

*************************************************

 

The next few hours pass in a strange manner, and Stiles can’t tell if they’re moving at the pace of an old lady with a walker or oddly quick, like an old lady on an electric scooter. Isaac retreated up to the loft the second he realized that Stiles didn’t close off the mountain ash line this morning. He’s not really upset by it either, since what little Isaac owns is probably stashed somewhere up there. Stiles is content to mill around the main floor of the condo, picking up old things and putting them back, getting reacquainted. He meanders over to the front door and restores the mountain ash line. He’s mostly sure Isaac isn’t going to take off. Mostly. It strikes Stiles that it’s good to keep the line up anyways, a line of supernatural defense that he hopes they won’t need.

Eventually his exploration leads him over to the kitchen, and he opens the cabinets to find them stocked, the refrigerator somewhat full with half eaten meals, cooking supplies, vegetables and the like. Isaac hasn’t been a guest then, he really did just move in to what he thought was an abandoned condo. Stiles’ need to touch everything turns toward a general purpose as he pulls out some of the half finished meals, trying to decide what looks best to eat. He’s got the remains of a lasagna and a chicken vegetable casserole something on the counter by the microwave before he feels cold spike down his spine, turning to find Isaac lurking at the edge of the kitchen.

Stiles’ immediate thought is to thank Isaac, or ask permission to eat the food, but the niceties are quickly overshadowed by the fact that Isaac doesn’t own the kitchen, or anything else in here for that matter. Instead Stiles drums his fingers against the old orange countertop, his eyes flicking from the food, to Isaac, and then back to the food.

“I thought we should eat before we commit petty theft.”

The smile that Stiles receives for his comment is both radiant and refreshingly uncommon. It’s nice to have someone appreciate him, even if it’s for just the humor. Stiles does his best to return it as he picks up the lasagna to heat it up in the aging microwave, stumped by the settings on something so archaic until he feels the same ice trickle down his back. He turns to find Isaac basically backing him into the corner of the kitchen with the microwave behind him, a softer version of the smile from a few seconds ago still gracing his face.

Stiles doesn’t want to reflect on what he thought Isaac was actually going to do to him, but it certainly wasn’t to reach around him and punch a button on the microwave.

“You haven’t been here in a long time, have you?”

Stiles is lost for words but manages a nod before slipping to the side of Isaac, desperate not to touch him. Stiles doesn’t think he can handle that right now, not after seeing Isaac so close without a flinch or a terrified set of blue eyes. Once Stiles pieces himself back together from the other end of the condo on the couch, he calls out to Isaac, asking if it’s okay to watch a movie and just eat on the couch.

It seems Isaac agrees when he comes around the wall of the kitchen with two plates, laying them down on the coffee table and settling himself as Stiles searches the movie cabinet for something appropriate. Unfortunately the cabin is a freeze frame of Stiles circa age nine, and the only thing they have to watch is a rather impressive collection of Disney VHS movies. Beauty and the Beast is at the top of the stack, and Stiles figures Isaac can’t be too offended by it, and feeds it into the TV that must be at least ten years old before returning to curl on the opposite side of the couch from Isaac, his back turned mostly away from the guy.

Stiles digs in, trying to focus on the movie and forget that this is kind of a strange activity to be doing with your home invader/ omega roommate. It gets less weird when Stiles glances back to Isaac, resting on the other side of the couch, utterly engrossed. 

“You’ve never seen Beauty and the Beast? Man, what did you do your whole childhood?

************************************************  
Isaac almost convinces himself to answer as he watches Stiles attempt to sit still, trying to focus on the movie.Stiles clearly doesn’t expect Isaac to answer, getting up from the movie to refill his plate. He’s on his way back to the couch when Isaac decides that they should try for his earlier plan. 

“TV wasn’t allowed in my house unless it was a special occasion. More important things to do.”

Stiles seems surprised by the presence from any answer at all, but despite Isaac’s prediction that he would launch into another round of questions, he settles himself in front of Isaac on the end of the couch closer to the TV, watching the movie play out.

“Who’s Derek?”

Isaac figures he might as well ask, seeing as Stiles has had plenty of opportunity to comment and hasn’t taken it. Isaac watches Stiles’ back freeze, his hands motionless around the plate balanced on the couch’s arm. Maybe that wasn’t the best question to start off with, but it is relevant to Isaac’s interests. If Stiles is working for someone, Isaac should know about it.

Instead of getting an answer, Stiles leaves his plate on the coffee table to their left, rising with a grace Isaac has yet to observe. The TV makes a strange zapping noise when Stiles shuts it off, and he leans against the wall by the kitchen, addressing Isaac.

“Hopefully your new alpha.”

Isaac doesn’t take the answer the way he was meant too by the expectant posture at the end of the statement, and Stiles rolls his eyes, impatient.

“They’re both werewolves. Scott, my friend, he’s a beta. Like, a follower. Derek… He’s…”  
Clearly Stiles is well rehearsed on the subject of Derek. The way he’s moving now, just at the mention of him, as if someone important is watching him or listening in on this conversation. Isaac is still on the other side of the room, but it feels like Stiles wishes he was out of the condo, as far away as possible.

“Derek’s the alpha. Scott’s leader… mine too, I suppose. But I’m not a werewolf if you still haven’t come to that conclusion. Are you ready to leave?”

There’s obviously more to the Derek thing, but unlike Stiles, Isaac has some sense of when to leave a person to themselves. Isaac drops their plates off in the kitchen sink while Stiles breaks the line in front of the door and they head off to the jeep, another uncomfortable silence infecting the atmosphere of the jeep as it pulls away.

***********************************************

Isaac seems to find it easier to break into the old collection boxes when they find the third one. The first two metal containers were a bust, filled with mostly women’s clothing, but this one, in the corner of a bowling alley parking lot forty-five minutes away from the condo, will hopefully have whatever clothing Isaac has in mind for himself.

Stiles reaches up on his toes to pull open the depositing slot that reminds him of a jumbo mailbox, unable to see the contents below from up here. 

“I have no idea if there’s anything worthwhile in this one.” Stiles’ voice clangs through the metal box, the level of noise suggesting that there won’t be all that much in this particular one. There’s another significant clang that surprises Stiles, squinting down from his stretched position to see Isaac laying the padlock to the front door of the box on the asphalt to the side of it. The four foot door opens more quietly than Stiles anticipated, and Isaac ducks in while Stiles goes to settle himself as lookout along the side of the box. 

“Are you sure we’re not taking these clothes out of the hands of people who actually need them?”

Isaac’s voice echos back to Stiles from inside the donation box, hearing the plastic and paper bags crunch and rip as Isaac explores them. Stiles slips down the cool edge of the pink coated metal, sitting with his knees up to his chest as he waits for Isaac to pick what he wants.

“Yeah I’m sure. This company-” Stiles leans forward, craning his neck around to read the black sticker above his head. “- Humanity’s Love or whatever, is part of a group of shitty corporations that put these boxes out to look like they’re for donation. They’re actually bagging the donations for sale to underdeveloped countries overseas.”

Isaac’s head pops from around the edge of the doorframe, several articles of clothing hanging from his fingers.

“That’s fucked up,” he declares as Stiles watches him duck down to emerge from the little door in front of the box to deposit the clothing on top of Stiles’ lap. “Why the hell would someone do that?”

“It’s not just these companies that do it. Charities sell their extra donations too because there’s not enough people to take all of it. People donate too much, basically. It all ends up in these incredibly destitute places, where their local textile markets are undercut by all the cheap clothing coming in from North America. Technically we’re doing them a favor by…” 

Stiles trails off as Isaac ducks back into the box. It’s not like anyone really cares about the decimation of the textile industry in the Pacific Islands. 

“By committing petty theft instead, saving them from these castoffs?” Isaac reappears with a whole garbage bag this time, a pair of not-quite-combat boots in the hand not holding the yellow straps of the overtaxed white bag. Stiles peers up at Isaac, his face in shadow as the bright light from the bowling alley side lot lights up a silhouette of his head.

“I think some lady kicked her boyfriend out and donated all of his clothes. This-” Isaac shakes the bag, “is mostly my size. We can go home now if you want.”

Stiles manages to rise from his place against the donation box with no physical casualties, bunching up Isaac’s haul and dumping it into his arms as he moves towards his jeep parked at the front of the bowling alley. Isaac is still standing there, watching Stiles walk away, his arms stuffed with the garbage bag along with the other things he found. Stiles keeps going but turns, walking backwards with his keys jangling as he beckons Isaac forward like a dog.

“Well? You just going to stand there? C’mon, I can’t wait to get you out of my dad’s stuff.” He hears Isaac’s footsteps pick up after he turns back around to close the distance between them and they reach the jeep at the same time. By the time Stiles is settled and ready to go, Isaac has already abandoned their loot in the back seat. Stiles ends up staring as Isaac pulls one of his legs from the car floor onto the cracked plastic of the seat, the purple glow from the bowling alley’s business sign illuminating his face as he rests it on top of his knee, looking not exactly sad, but far from pleased.

“You know I only took what was in the condo because I thought no one lived there anymore, right? It’s not like I wanted to steal your dad’s stuff.”

The dejection in Isaac’s voice and entire demeanor catches somewhere in the back of Stiles’ throat. Images of Isaac from the first few minutes Stiles had laid eyes on him, held against the wall of the diner, and then again when Stiles had him pinned with the baseball bat last night, and this morning… god. He’s been awful. Stiles has no idea why Isaac did any of this, moved into the condo, decided to stay with Stiles, all of it. But there’s clearly something bigger going on here, and Stiles owes it to the several other omegas he’s encountered but failed to protect to not let this one slip away.

“I know. It’s fine, really. But I brought all of my stuff from Berkeley, you should have something other than dad jeans from our elementary school days.”

Driving back to the condo is significantly easier after Stiles says something about the clothes to Isaac, and it makes him wonder what else he’s said or done that Isaac will misinterpret. They’re not even close to freely communicating yet though, because Isaac is allergic to answering almost any of Stiles’ questions. It makes things slower, but Stiles will just have to find it in his heart to understand.

Stiles heads straight down to the basement stairs when they get back, Isaac stopping to greet Jay, who’s been waiting for their return. She follows Isaac inside, trotting down the stairs to meet Stiles at the foot of them, giving him a cursory sniff before heading into the second bedroom with two twin beds to rest.

Isaac is slower to make it down the stairs, his head peeking around the side of all the clothes to watch his feet as he descends. 

“I figured we should probably wash all of that,” Stiles takes the bulk of the items from Isaac’s arms and shoves it all into the washer along the wall before setting it to cold and switching it on. Isaac seems mortified though, and it takes Stiles a second to figure out what’s happened before he smiles, thumping his hand down on the old beige metal of the dryer as the washer starts filling with water, a low rumble humming between them.

“Oh, don’t worry. None of the colors are going to bleed or anything. My mom always bought the nice detergent so…” Isaac doesn’t look any better though, so Stiles abandons the subject, letting his hands find their way into his jeans’ pockets. He glances down for a second, inspecting his t-shirt. 

“I’ve been wearing the same thing for like two days. It must smell disgusting to you, yeah? So about the sleeping arrangements. I was thinking you should sleep in here.” Stiles walks the few steps towards his parent’s old bedroom, the one with the glass door that Jay came through last night. “It’ll be better than the couch.”

Isaac only nods at him, a vague sort of look in his eyes, and Stiles does his level best to hold back a sigh and an eye roll. Would it kill Isaac to say okay or something? Apparently.

Stiles leaves Isaac staring at the glass door from the master bedroom, passing by Jay as she hurries in to join her owner. Half way up the stairs to the main floor, Stiles turns to yell back down at Isaac, seeing the door to the master still half open.

“I’m gonna get my stuff from the back of my jeep, and then take a shower. Come get me if you need something, okay?”

There’s some form of communication, a distant mumble, and Stiles is too tired to play along.

“I’m still not a werewolf.”

The response Stiles gets sends him straight back to last night, Isaac yelling like Stiles is deaf instead.

“Thanks.”

Stiles decides he’s reached his limit again, Isaac’s attitude just irritating enough to convince him to drop the attempted conversation and leave him down there, shutting the door at the top of the basement a little harsher than he meant to. Isaac is still a guest, no matter how permanent. This is going to tax his every nerve, Stiles can just feel it. The trip to the jeep, and then back up to the condo with his bags calms him down a bit, reminds him that Isaac is still learning, that he doesn’t understand anything yet.

After his shower, Stiles settles into the loft, pulling out his laptop, checking his emails. There are ten from Scott, all saying basically the same thing. What does Stiles know about the omega? Admittedly, not a whole lot unfortunately. Stiles tries to keep the email back to Scott clinical and brief to hide the fact that Stiles knows little more than when he called him last night in a panic after Isaac passed out. He’s about to send it off before he adds a note on the bottom to bring a DVD player, because while Stiles has all of his movies from college, the setup here is lacking a way to play them.

The next morning starts with Isaac looming at the edge of the mountain ash line, knocking harshly on the wall.

“You’re going to make me late again. If you’re not driving me, then you have to break the ash line thing.”

Any sort of fondness from their brief flirtation with the law last night is completely erased as Stiles falls out of bed, grabbing his phone and keys from the nightstand. He pushes past Isaac on the narrow staircase and heads right out the door, in his pajamas, kicking the line with his socked toe to let Isaac follow him out.

*******************************************

If the basement hadn’t already convinced Isaac that Stiles was upset with him over something, then his reaction to being woken up certainly confirms it. Isaac had sent Jay up before him since Jay has no problems crossing the line. She licks Stiles’ hand but it only makes him turn over, and Jay trots back down the stairs, her job apparently finished in her eyes.

Isaac can’t really hold it against her though. She was up all night with him in the basement, her head in his lap, pacing the room with him, sitting outside on the concrete slab and running around the sunken courtyard that the surrounding condos share. Isaac almost woke up Stiles at one point around three in the morning to get him to break the line so he could at least have joined Jay for a bit, but the memory of surprising Stiles and getting a baseball bat poking into his chest is not something he’s eager to repeat.

Stiles is an incredibly heavy sleeper apparently, because even shouting out to him isn’t working. Isaac’s going to be late and he doesn’t want to test Cora’s patience two days in a row. Isaac glimpses the earplugs as Stiles pushes past him down the stairs, and feels exponentially worse about the whole thing.

The next four days pass in a similar fashion to the first day, minus Stiles staying inside the diner. Instead he stays in the jeep, only coming in for about an hour to eat lunch before leaving to go sulk in the parking lot until Isaac finishes, driving home in silence. Five days without any kind of sleep is wearing Isaac thin, every exaggerated movement of Stiles making his skin crawl, wishing he would just get up the courage to get in Stiles’ face about it like Stiles has been with all his questions.

Being stuck in the condo with him is turning into a nightmare, the questions almost unending. At some point during the third day of their standoff, in the middle of a particularly irritating round of questioning about why Isaac is wearing dog tags that don’t belong to him, a look of defeat and pity paints over Stiles’ face, bringing them both to an awkward standstill. The pounding headache of sleep deprivation is completely worsened by being surrounded by all this sympathy and trepidation at work and from Stiles after the sudden drop off of questioning. Jay has taken to meeting them when they get back in the afternoons from Mel’s, hovering around Isaac’s feet, attaching herself to him. Stiles has been quiet since they arrived home early today, Cora basically shoving him out the door before his shift was over with an order to get some sleep or not come back at all.

The silence in the condo that rushes in to fill the absence of Stiles’ questions lulls him almost to sleep several times as Stiles heats up dinner for them again. This time they’re watching The Jungle Book and Isaac finds himself distantly happy, memories of watching with Cam coming to life in his haze of half consciousness. He’s shocked out of it though when Stiles’ head blocks his view, and he feels a hand holding his, and then something quite warm being pressed into it.

“Hot chocolate. Go downstairs and drink it. Get some sleep. You’re wrecked.”

Isaac lets Stiles pull him up from the couch because it seems like a really nice dream anyways, to have someone touch him without the intention of hurting him. Jay is whining around his feet as they reach the top of the stairs. Isaac could cry when he feels the warm hand leave the space in between his shoulderblades, and he knows it’s irrational to feel abandoned by Stiles, a guy he’s known for a little less than a week, but he does. Moving his head is like moving through water, and he meets Stiles’ concerned eyes, standing just behind and next to him.

“Well, goodnight.”

Stiles turns to leave and Isaac stares down into the abyss, Jay moving down a few stairs and staring back up at him. Jay whines again and runs up and down a few stairs and Isaac follows without turning on the light to the staircase, doing his best to keep the hot chocolate from spilling and not running into Jay.

He catches Jay on one of her scrambles back up the stairs, and Isaac has to abandon the mug to hold onto the railing of the wall as everything lurches in the dark, Jay hitting the bottom of the stairs where the mug has crashed, yelping at what is inevitably the shards from the broken ceramic.

Isaac makes it down the stairs, jumping over the mess, getting past the washer and dryer to pick up the cowering Jay, pulling a nasty chunk of what was the handle of the mug out of one of her front paws only to be stunned by the sudden revelation of light as Stiles comes down the stairs after flipping on the light. He doesn’t see the mess at the bottom of the stairs though and before Isaac can get a word of warning out, he comes to a stop at the bottom, almost an exact repeat of Jay’s mistake.

Stiles doesn’t say anything, but his face lights up in pain and confusion, taking in Isaac with his fingers covered in Jay’s blood as Isaac rushes towards him, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him off the broken mug.

The two steps Stiles has to take jam the broken mug further into his feet, and Isaac doesn’t have enough energy left to deal with this, despite the adrenaline spike coursing through him making everything stand out in sharp contrast, somewhat shiny. Isaac sits with his hand still firmly fisted in Stiles’ shirt, the blood on his fingers smearing over it as Stiles is forced to the ground with him. Isaac takes one of Stiles’ feet and puts it in his lap, the whole ordeal lasting not over five seconds. Stiles looks how Isaac feels: completely shocked.

Isaac can only see two or three pieces wedged into Stiles’ left foot, and he yanks them out without warning. It’s usually best to do it without warning, since Isaac has pulled glass out of his own skin too many times to count.

When Isaac switches to the other foot, he glances up at Stiles, who seems like he’s recovered enough of his senses to say something.  
“Was that the mug I gave you?”

Isaac nods while he reaches for Stiles’ right foot, pulling the massive triangle from the sole of it just before it kicks him in the chest. Hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger! I've never actually been on the writer's side of one before, and it's really fun! I promise that Stiles has an excellent reason for it. Writing sleep deprived Isaac was like looking in a mirror, so if he seems a little more emotional and vague than usual, it's a reflection of my own experience. Thanks for reading, and as always, I'm totally excited to talk with anyone about CitW or anything else for that matter on [my tumblr](laheylicker.tumblr.com/ask).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the disaster of last night, Stiles leaves to find some answers. Isaac realizes he can't leave at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should preface this chapter with a warning. Isaac has a PTSD episode of sorts, that includes flashbacks to non-specifically mentioned physical abuse. The verbal abuse is pretty clear though. There's also a fair amount of blood mentioned in this chapter. If you feel like I should add more warnings once you read the chapter, don't hesitate to let me know. 
> 
> Please note the change in tags as well.

Isaac slams his wrists into the hard concrete of the basement to catch himself before he falls over, glaring back at Stiles. Stiles is pretty fixated on the bloody footprint on Isaac's chest.

"Why the hell did you pull them out? You could have torn a nerve or a blood vessel!"

Stiles' foot is slowly starting to soak the army green Mel's Diner t-shirt, staining it a frankly disgusting brown, creating a bloody footprint right in the middle of the logo on Isaac’s chest. Isaac is definitely going to use this as new evidence for keeping his silence, seeing as his host just kicked him in the chest. Stiles really sucks at this 'introduction to supernatural life' thing.

Stiles doesn't really know why he did it, but the longer they keep up the staring competition the more the adrenaline fades to be replaced by stabbing, burning pain. As it radiates up his feet and ankles, Stiles feels a weird compulsion to apologize. It was stupid to kick Isaac away; he was only trying to help. But that doesn't erase the fact that Stiles' mother's mug is now in about 15 pieces on the floor.

Stiles pulls his foot back, tears of shock welling in his eyes as refuses to acknowledge despite the overwhelming pain, and scoots his back toward the wall by the stairs. The movement seems to wake Isaac up from his trance and Stiles finds himself being hauled up.

It feels like their first meeting, one ready to kill the other. Only this time it's completely reversed as Stiles' head is forced upwards and to the left by Isaac's forearm under his jaw, Isaac's face blank and right by his exposed neck and ear.

"I've pulled glass out plenty of times and I'm still here to tell the tale, so you'll live. Suck it up."

Isaac sounds like he's aged twenty years, and if Stiles wasn't struggling to breathe he would probably be having an inappropriate reaction to Isaac's proximity and Isaac's voice so close to his neck he can feel the heat of it... Until Isaac's sudden release saves Stiles from continuing down that mortifying train of thought. 

Isaac's fingers curl into Stiles' shirt sleeve as he roughly guides him towards the stairs, close to the wall where the mug didn't fall. After almost choking, Stiles grabs Isaac back in mostly reflex, matching Isaac's hold on him. But where Stiles' grip is steady, Stiles can feel the slightest of tremors in Isaac's stiff fingers against his arm. 

"You have to clean the cuts or you'll regret it. Walk upstairs and I'll follow."

Stiles manages a nod in response, his heart thumping nervously at Isaac's demeanor. It's not threatening per say. More like the fake calm you might see in a movie when someone is under duress, or when someone is trying to hide something.

It becomes immediately clear on the first step that Stiles isn't going to make it without help, the situation made only more awkward by the fact that they're both holding on to each other's shirts. The pain of even trying to step up the stairs forces a moan out of Stiles, and before he can warn Isaac away, Isaac’s fingers retreat from their hold on his shirt, slipping down his arm to grab his hand, positioning his arm over Isaac’s taller and broader shoulders. Their new position takes almost all of the weight off of his torn up feet and Stiles relaxes just a bit, the pain immediately easier to handle.

As Stiles tightens his hold, he risks a glance at Isaac who is instead intently studying the long flight of stairs ahead of them. No doubt he’s taking note of just how narrow the staircase is, especially if they plan on going up side by side. 

"Let's take it fast so I leave only minimal bloody footprints, okay?"

The look on Isaac’s face tells Stiles that this is far from a joking matter, and they set up the stairs, Isaac almost dragging him, his arm encircling Stiles' waist when he falters about a third of the way up. They hobble from the top of the stairs to the couch in the living room, Isaac unceremoniously dropping him on to the old faded cushions.

"Where's the condo's emergency kit."

His voice is just as stoic as before, but out of the darkness of the basement, Stiles is startled by what he finds in Isaac's eyes. Absolute terror illuminated by the setting sun glaring through the glass balcony doors. Does Isaac have an issue with blood or something? Stiles forgets to wonder about it as the pain rushes up his feet, making him cringe and shut his eyes as he slowly melts into the couch, trying to lay down without getting his bloody feet all over it. 

"Under the kitchen sink. Can't miss it."

When Isaac returns, it's with the first aid kit, a few clean dish rags, and the half full bottle of Jack Daniel’s that Stiles hid under there forever ago when he was 16. He situates himself on the end of the coffee table closest to Stiles' feet, staring down at them.

"This is going to hurt more than the actual cuts, but try to stay still, okay?"

Isaac sounds a little more present and in the moment, and just as Stiles connects the dots to Isaac pulling his feet into his lap and unscrewing the Jack; the sudden fire crawling up his legs yanks him up in a shocked gasp.

********************************

Isaac hates literally every second of this. There's no getting used to the burn of alcohol cleaning out cuts, and it's small comfort that Isaac isn't pouring something much stronger than whiskey on Stiles’ dripping feet. The Jack Daniel’s is washing away the dirt from the carpet and most of the clotting and dried blood onto the towel underneath Stiles' resting heels. Isaac is so intent on making sure that Stiles doesn't get an infection that he doesn't immediately notice Stiles has almost stopped breathing, his face hidden between his knees. His arms are crossed over his head like he's expecting something from the ceiling to suddenly come crashing down, his breaths shallow and quick. Shit. It's too easy to forget that not everyone is used to pain. And why should Stiles be used to it? 

Isaac abandons what's left of the Jack and the bloody rag to the coffee table and he picks up the other towel, shoving it up against the cuts, stemming the already slowing flow of blood. He reaches out with his other hand to tug at Stiles' elbow, suddenly desperate to see if Stiles is okay.

"Stiles! Hey, come out, are you okay?"

Isaac’s bedside gentleness ceases the second Isaac looks down to his own hand, watching his arms lace with black when Stiles relaxes into the touch. He surfaces from his crouch to breathe a sigh of relief and Isaac is glad Stiles feels better, he really is. But that doesn't come close to comparing with exactly how panicked he is right now, his grip frozen on Stiles' elbow, his gaze transfixed on his own arm.

Stiles catches on to Isaac's panic in a heartbeat, his other hand unwrapping from his legs to lay it over Isaac's diseased looking hand, staring straight at Isaac and not at his arm, which could be experiencing tissue death for all Isaac knows.

"Isaac. Isaac! Take a second, breathe okay?"

Isaac heaves in oxygen he didn't know he was missing until Stiles pointed it out, his eyes unmoving from the pulsating black making its way up his arm. Stiles catches Isaac's panicked eyes with his calm ones, guiding his attention away from whatever is happening with him.

"You really didn't know?"

“I’m pretty certain that this has never happened before, ever.” Stiles seems genuinely surprised, as if Isaac should have figured this out on his own. He's been like this for a while, but he's certainly never noticed his veins turning black for no particular reason. Isaac’s arm falls from Stiles, and if Isaac thought he was exhausted before all of this, he’s never been more wrong. The entire world lurches and he almost falls onto Stiles before catching himself, standing way too quickly, causing another head rush.

“You need sleep. I can’t begin to describe how much you need sleep. Go downstairs and sleep. I would force you down there myself, but-” Stiles points to his feet with his free hand, the other holding the clean towel to the wounds. Isaac must have abandoned it when his arm distracted him. Right. The black veins thing.

“Not until you tell me what the hell just happened.”

“You’re going to threaten me by not sleeping until I answer you? That’s not the most effective of tactics.”

Isaac tries to level Stiles with a glare, but it must look something closer to pathetic and pleading because Stiles sighs and shifts to hold the towel to his feet with both hands, looking up to Isaac.

“It’s a werewolf thing. Not healing, exactly. Like, lupine morphine. If you have the intention to help someone in pain, you can basically take it from them.” Stiles finishes his sentence looking back at his feet before carrying on.

“So I guess you had the intention when you started pulling on my arm. You took the pain of the cuts.”

If Isaac were more cognizant, he would surely have had a more exaggerated reaction than a weak nod, dragging his feet away from the narrow strip between the couch and the coffee table. Maybe he’s so exhausted that sleeping in the basement won’t seem like a living nightmare this time, but a nasty voice in the back of his mind convinces him that it will be exactly as horrible as the first night down there. Isaac’s hesitating at the door to the stairs back down when Jay rushes up to him, her eyes shining. There’s only just enough time to step back and prevent her from completely pouncing like she usually does, but she doesn’t stop for Isaac. She rounds the corner, her speed slowing considerably until she’s approaching the couch with caution.

Isaac leaves the stairs to watch Jay as she slinks up to Stiles, the picture of contrition. Stiles looks pleased as punch that Jay isn’t growling at him, and after a nervous few seconds, lays a hand on her head. He ruffles her fur and Jay’s ears relax in contentment.

“Isaac look! She doesn’t hate me!”

The picture in front of him is almost too cute for words, and Isaac can’t help but smile a little. Jay decides that Stiles is worthy of a face lick, and the whole thing, from Stiles’ laugh to Jay’s tail pounding on the carpet makes his stomach lurch in a way that isn’t unpleasant at all.

“Can she? Um. Is it okay if she sleeps with me?” Isaac wouldn’t want to break the two of them up, but Jay whines and follows Isaac when he turns to head back down alone. 

“You could both stay if you wanted. I don’t want you to fall down the stairs and end up cutting your own feet, man. Plus Jay and…”

Before Stiles can finish Isaac is convinced. Anything for some sleep. The rocking chair next to the fireplace diagonally situated from the couch calls out for Isaac to sit in it. Stiles is definitely still saying words but none of them are registering as Isaac makes his way over to the chair, the whole thing kind of a daze before he sits. Jay pushes her head under one of Isaac’s hands and Isaac faintly registers just the smallest change in the color of his veins, his last thought before passing out that at least Jay’s pain is just as fixed as Stiles’ now is.

******************************

“Plus Jay and… Isaac don’t sleep in the chair that’s not what I meant. The loft. Are you going to take the- I guess not.”

Stiles watches Isaac’s veins turn a faint shade of grey from the contact with Jay, and Stiles realizes that Jay must have landed on the mug. That Jay probably ran into Isaac on the stairs and that’s the reason this whole evening’s drama has landed Stiles on the couch with bleeding feet. It also explains why Jay came to see Stiles, why she looked so upset and worried. Stiles doubts Isaac punishes her if she does something wrong, and she doesn’t seem like the kind of dog to start trouble in the first place. 

Isaac sleeps like he’s simply unconscious, with no noise, no movement at all. It’s almost like he’s dead until his hand slips from Jay’s head to his lap, his head tilting just a bit. Jay stays with him for a few minutes, apparently satisfied for the moment and leaves him to curl in between the couch and the chair, half hidden by the coffee table. The first aid kit is luckily still within reach, and Stiles unfurls the ace bandages and wraps up his feet with quick efficiency. The last gulp of Jack is more than tempting, but he tells himself firmly he doesn’t need it right now. For all the pain Isaac caused over the last twenty minutes, he’s taken it all back. It’s just a dull ache in the back of his mind, like how his mother’s destroyed mug is still in the back of his mind.

Stiles decides to be the bigger person and let it go. People are not in their possessions, and there’s plenty of other stuff that Stiles has collected over the years to fill the void of not being able to touch her. He’ll be okay if the mug isn’t part of the collection anymore. After dropping the bloody rags on to the corner of the coffee table, Stiles situates himself on the couch as best as he can without putting pressure on his feet. How the hell did Isaac sleep on this if Stiles is having issues fitting himself on here? Isaac must be three or four inches taller. Stiles’ mind continues to wander for a bit until the wanderings fade into dreams, leaving Stiles in relative peace for the next six hours or so.

***

The buzzing of his daily alarm jolts Stiles awake, his phone still in his back pocket from last night. His position on the couch is strange until he sees his feet somewhat propped up on the arm of the couch. Last night hits him like a kick to the chest, and he immediately looks for Isaac in the chair. It looks like the last six hours have had no effect on him, still just as motionless in the same position as last night. For a split second he thinks Isaac is snoring, but further inspection reveals that it’s Jay, flopped out on the carpet between the two of them. Her paws twitch and her ears perk up at bit, and Stiles hopes that Jay catches whatever she’s hunting in her dreams. It would be a shame to wake Isaac after he looked so dead on his feet last night, so Stiles sneaks gingerly to the kitchen, happy to find his feet are in better condition than he had anticipated.

The bandages are only showing the barest signs of major bleeding as he sits back down with his glass of orange juice, fixing his gaze on the sleeping figure in the rocking chair by the fireplace. If the trip to the fridge and back didn’t wake him, maybe Stiles can go to the diner and get some answers before his absence is even noticed. Stiles spends the next twenty minutes surprised that nothing seems to wake Isaac up, from the clink of the glass as he sets it on the beaten up table to his hiss when he unwraps his feet to see the damage.

It’s bad, but he’s certainly had worse from several training accidents with Scott and Derek. He takes the other set of bandages from the first aid kit and does his best to wrap his feet again because he doesn’t want to bleed into the soles of his shoes and he has too much to take advantage of because Isaac is passed out.

The journey to the jeep is less eventful and painful than he had anticipated, and the only snag he hits is stepping up into the driver’s seat, the flexing of his arches causing a painful burn. He should be okay to make it to the diner and back though, and he drives the lonely highway back to Mel’s Diner, thinking about Isaac the entire time.

Usually he would have had music playing to keep himself interested, but Isaac and all of last night is taking up his attention, and he plays it over and over again in his mind, trying to notice the strange ways Isaac had reacted and attempting to find an explanation to them. He’s no closer to any answers when he pulls into the parking lot of the little shopping center that includes the diner. He doesn’t even realize he’s parked himself until the road is suddenly stationary, and he snatches the keys out of the ignition. He fails spectacularly at trying to contain the panic that he managed a whole drive on several highways without registering any of it. He was so fixated on Isaac and he feels sick just thinking about it. He doesn’t want Isaac to accuse Stiles of treating him like a problem to be fixed like Derek so often did. Time for some answers.

As bravely as he marches into the diner at seven in the morning, it doesn’t take long for Isaac’s friends to notice that he’s sitting alone at the counter, spinning from side to side on the mostly stationary bar stool. The first to approach him is his server from five days ago, who seems surprised to see him back in here at such an early hour.

Erica is holding her ordering pad in one hand, but it's trapped under her palm on the counter, more for show than for anything else, because she clearly has no intention of serving Stiles.

“You haven’t been in since that first day. And today is Isaac’s late shift, so why are you here without him?”

It’s somewhat amusing to Stiles that Erica has launched into this without even asking his name or if he even knows an Isaac at all. Panic seems to spread over her face as she hears her own words, as if only just registering that Stiles is here and Isaac is not.

“There was a bit of an accident last night.”

In retrospect, it was possibly the worst thing Stiles could have said to Erica.

********************************************

Isaac wakes with a jolt, his head snapping up as a horrific ache runs down his neck from the awkward position. Jay is sleepily wandering the living room, winding her way between the legs of the chairs tucked away under the dining table by the kitchen. Isaac runs a hand through his hair, letting it fall over his face. That wasn’t as much sleep as he was hoping for, especially since all the weirdness of last night makes him feel like he probably owes a few explanations to Stiles.

When his hand falls away from his face, he takes in the empty couch but doesn’t quite register it. Isaac would have heard Stiles move, wouldn’t he? And he couldn’t really move because of his feet anyway. Isaac repeats it to himself over and over as he stumbles from the chair, drowsy only for a moment. The panic pounds into him like a brick wall; the only heartbeat he can hear is Jay as she turns towards the hallway and the kitchen. There’s no one else here. He doesn’t bother with a search of the rest of the condo and heads straight for the front door instead, because if Stiles isn’t here then maybe he’s in the detached garage for some reason? His jeep? Worse than Stiles missing is the fact that he can’t touch the doorknob, his hand jamming an inch before it no matter how hard he pushes.

After the fifth try and a faint blue shimmer, Isaac finally accepts that he’s trapped, and that Stiles has decided to leave him here. Jay’s circling in the kitchen expecting to be fed; her hunting this week severely diminished because she’s been inside so much watching out for Isaac. Isaac finds himself in the kitchen without remembering how he got there in the first place, bending down to balance on his heels as Jay walks up to him and licks his nose.

He grabs on to her, cupping the back of her jaw with both hands, soothing his thumbs over her ears over and over, looking for a place to put the panic.

“You don’t think he _left_ left, do you, Jay?” She seems totally uninterested in anything that doesn’t have to do with food, and Isaac pulls the dog food bag out and pours some into Jay’s dish by the refrigerator. He turns to stand, his position at the refrigerator gives him a sickening view of the front door and he chokes, his heart suddenly in his throat. Did Stiles leave because of Isaac?

Isaac tears down the stairs to the basement and jumps over the wreckage he left behind at the bottom of them, one hand clutching at his shirt from last night because he can’t breathe. All of a sudden he smells blood and half way down the stairs and he realizes its Stiles' by the time he’s crossing through the hallway, his bloody footprint still on his shirt. Isaac’s only thought is to get to the other door, the one in his room that could let him out to the courtyard. He collides into the same barrier, unable to pull the sliding glass open because he never asked Stiles to break the line of ash down there. 

_This is your fault._

It plays in his head over and over again, and he stands absolutely stock still, his hand reaching up to pull at the footprint as he stares at the doorway. He takes in the picture that the open door affords, the little landing where everything happened last night illuminated by the sunrise behind him. Isaac replays the whole fiasco over again in his mind as walks forward to the broken mug at the foot of the stairs.

_You did this, you can’t fix it. No one wants you Isaac. And I’m stuck taking care of you. It’s always your fault. Your mother couldn’t take you, and your brother left us because he hated the idea of getting stuck with you._

Isaac picks up the shards of the mug, the white porcelain stained brown from Jay and Stiles’ blood last night. His grip on the shards hardens as his father’s voice returns and Isaac stands over the trashcan by the washing machine, unable to drop the pieces into the container as he distantly registers blood welling through his clenched fingers.

_You think you can fix this? The mug was obviously worth more than you are. That’s why he kicked you, that’s why he left you here to rot with that fucking dog._

The shards finally drop out of Isaac’s hands, their clink against the grey plastic suddenly terrifying when he sees them covered in fresh blood, and Isaac feels the bile rising, the back of his jaw tightening when he knows he’s about to throw up. But he can’t mess this condo up more than he already has and he swallows, hard, breathing as little as possible. He can’t fix the mug. But he can try to fix everything else that’s happened because of it, and Isaac’s mind fixates on the bloody footprints he glanced on his rush down, the huge dark stain that the hot chocolate left. Isaac has been cleaning things his whole life.

_You’ve always been terrible at cleaning. You’ll have to do it over again, Isaac. Do it again._

Isaac has scrubbed his own basement stairs of his own blood more times than he cares to remember. Unfortunately, he can remember every single time. It’s lucky that these stairs are covered in dark carpet and not concrete like his were. Bleach works just fine on concrete, but it burns like hell everywhere else.

He finds himself in the kitchen again, Jay rushing up to him and licking the tears on his face when he bends down to search for the cleaning supplies he saw under the sink. He doesn’t notice her at all though, pushing her aside blankly and grabbing a scrub brush and whatever cleaner that has been left here over the years.

Isaac can’t quantify how much time he spends on the stairs and at the bottom of them until he looks up suddenly, finally registering Jay laying at the top of the stairs, her head resting on her paws watching him. He’s holding a messed up carpet brush and an empty Pine-Sol bottle which is strange until he breathes and his throat aches in protest as if he’s been screaming or speaking for hours. The stairs are absent of anything but pristine blue carpet as he makes his way up to Jay, feeling the tremors start, tears tracking down his face, making his neck uncomfortably wet, his damp shirt collar rubbing at his neck.

The stairs leading up to the loft seem as good a place to collapse as any, and he leans up against the wall, his legs too long to figure out anything besides curling right up to his chest. He wipes angrily at the tears, unaware he’s painting his own face light red with his own dried blood left over from throwing away the mug shards. Jay skitters straight up the loft stairs and scratches around and by the sound of it, tries to pull something much too large for her. Isaac looks up to find Jay trotting back down, a blue pullover sweatshirt in between her teeth, CAL embroidered across the front in golden cursive letters.

Jay drops it in his lap and Isaac jerks towards it, shoving the whole thing into his face as Jay begins to softly bark at him from the bottom of the loft stairs. Stiles. This is Stiles’ sweatshirt. He wouldn’t have left without all of his stuff and Isaac finds that he can move his limbs, standing although everything jerks and creaks from the intensity of his cringing. He manages a full twenty minutes of peace on the couch wearing the blue CAL sweatshirt, petting his hands over Jay in his lap over and over again when he hears the jeep crunch over the gravel of the parking lot outside.

Angry ice settles in his stomach as he encourages Jay on to the floor and he arranges himself into the picture of irritation, which isn’t too hard to achieve, leaning against the doorway as the knob to the front door turns. Stiles is clearly moving as quietly as he can, believing that Isaac is still asleep for some strange reason.

Isaac seizes Stiles the second he crosses over the ash thing, papers scattering around their feet as he pins Stiles to the refrigerator in the kitchen, one hand holding his wrist, the other one heading straight for his throat, spreading his fingers as much as possible, reaching his thumb to just under Stiles’ ear at the corner of his jaw and pressing down hard.

“Why did you trap me in here?” He’s never been this angry in his entire life, the rage coursing through him, telling him to just snap that stupid little neck, end this annoyance once and for all. Stiles tries drawing in a breath, his one free hand landing on Isaac’s face, centering him and Isaac feels like someone just jerked him away from the edge of a cliff. He drops the hand holding Stiles’ neck to the fridge, his eyes downcast.

“I fixed the mess from last night.”

Stiles’ hand still doesn’t leave his face, brushing over his cheek and it makes Isaac feel terrible, feel guilty, his whole face on fire.

“Isaac, what did you do to yourself?” 

Isaac pushes Stiles’ hand off to feel his own face, pulling his hand back to find it red. It must have happened when he was cleaning up, the blood on his hands making its way on to his face instead. Isaac is so embarrassed that he can hardly speak, and instead backs away from touching Stiles at all, letting him escape from the front of the refrigerator. He looks at Stiles for a change, finding not terror but sadness in his eyes as he counters with a question of his own.

“Why did you kick me over a mug?” Stiles looks as horrible as Isaac feels, and he tracks Stiles as he leaves the fridge to pick up the papers Isaac made him drop not five minutes ago. Isaac recognizes some of his own artwork, and the nerves that over take him seem comparable to the nervous heartbeat he can hear coming from Stiles. How did he find those stupid scribbles?

“I think we should drop the act and realize that if we’re stuck here, we’re going to have to tell each other some shit.”

After what just happened in Stiles’ absence, Isaac couldn’t agree more as they settle themselves at the dining table, staring at each other, neither one knowing quite where to start.

***************************

“Wait, not like an accident of the murder variety!”

He gets the words out just a few seconds too late and Cora joins Erica, leaning over the bar as far as she can, trying to get in his face.

“What did you do to him then? Where is he?”

There’s only a few people in the diner towards the back, but the confrontation is enough that Samuel L. Jackson appears out of no where from behind, tugging his arm sharply as Stiles stumbles to a standing position. The conversation between the three ends in a consensus that they can’t let Stiles leave, but they also can’t continue the argument at the counter. Erica leaves her apron and order pad behind on the bar, coming around to meet him on the other side.

“I’ll talk to him. You two take care of the diner.” Stiles is dragged off to his corner booth, and after Stiles explains six different ways that Isaac isn’t actually hurt at all, Erica starts an explanation of her own. She leans over the table towards him, making her point very clear from the start.

“If I tell you about Isaac and you hurt him, I will make your death long and painful.” Stiles tries to agree, but Erica cuts him off with a raised hand, beginning her story.

*************************************

Stiles’ drive home from the diner is just as distracted as the drive to it, and once again the only reason Stiles even knows he’s at his destination is because his view through the windshield is stationary. The information dump from the diner is a lot to process, Samuel L. Jackson’s (now Boyd), Erica’s, and Cora’s faces still imprinted on his mind.

Stiles takes a few more minutes to stare out of the windshield before he heads back to the condo, unsure of where to even start now that he knows what Isaac’s mini Justice League knows.

Of all the things he’s learned about Isaac, the comics are the most intriguing and seem the most out of place. Why would Isaac choose to draw everything instead of talk? Stiles will admit even the sketches that have been scribbled out have amazing potential, even though so few of the paper menus seem to have been saved by Boyd. There are huge swaths missing of the story Isaac is drawing, as if he himself doesn’t wish to face it.

Shuffling the drawings together from the passenger seat, Stiles steels himself for whatever is about to come. It really shouldn’t surprise him when he’s practically snatched through his own door by an incredibly angry werewolf. When the back of his head connects with the cold refrigerator door, he decides to watch Isaac instead of fight back, because this whole slamming each other into things instead of talking is getting to be a little too Derek for his taste.

“Why did you trap me in here?”

The second he looks at Isaac’s eyes he is unendingly intrigued. Isaac’s fierce golds threaten him before flickering like the last few seconds of a light bulb as the filament burns out, as if he can’t decide to kill Stiles or not. _Already fighting the impulses_ Stiles thinks to himself as he struggles to get some oxygen from the chokehold, laying his hand over the dried blood on Isaac’s face. Maybe not fighting the impulses then if he was bleeding at some point. The electric blue that glows for just a flash fades away as Isaac looks down at the ground, the action so totally textbook from what Erica described, and Stiles can’t help but be shocked. His next statement is much softer, taking on the same aged and nervous tone that his voice had reflected downstairs.

“I fixed the mess from last night.” There’s not even time to look as embarrassed as apologetic he truly is, leaving in such a haste he forgot to break the mountain ash line.

_“He’ll do this thing where, if he thinks you’re upset….”_

“Isaac, what did you do to yourself?”

_“He tries to fix it, like he’s hoping it will make you like him again. And it will happen over the stupidest stuff. Like clean silverware spilling on to the ground.” Suddenly that first night back when Isaac was just Cornered Mouse takes on a whole new level of fucked up as he listens to Erica across the table in the back booth. They both look up to see Cora and Boyd having a heated staring contest still behind the bar, paper placemats with Mel’s Diner being viciously poked by Boyd as Cora shakes her head._

Erica’s words echo around in his head as Isaac backs away and shoves Stiles’ hand away from his face. He recoils as if the words have electrocuted him, his own hand covering the side of his face instead and withdrawing it to find blood, surprised it’s there if the shock on his face is anything to go by. But the shock is immediately replaced by the same cold anger that was holding him against the freezing cold refrigerator.

“Why did you kick me over a mug?”

Isaac leaves no time for a heart wrenching narrative of his life and why the mug was so important to a boy who lost his mother, instead laying out the truth; that Stiles had kicked him in the middle of Isaac trying to help save him from his own stupidity. They have to start this supernatural training/introduction/education somehow, and the absence of any kind of trust on both their sides means they’re never going to get anything done. Scott’s gonna get here to find Isaac just as unstable and confused as the day he was first bitten.

“I think we should drop the act and realize that if we’re stuck here, we’re going to have to tell each other some shit.”

Isaac’s reaction to the statement would suggest that he has no intention of dropping any act at all until he settles himself in one of the mustard yellow chairs. The dining table looks so small with Isaac at one end of it as he leans his head on his fist, his other arm lying parallel to the edge of the table. Stiles gathers up the drawings that were scattered at his unorthodox entrance into the house, shuffling them together and following Isaac. He takes a seat to Isaac’s left, leaving a chair between them as he sets the stack of drawings down on it, the Mel’s Diner logo facing up instead of the drawings.

The action draws Isaac’s attention to the chair, and he seems just a bit more relaxed that Stiles doesn’t want to lay out all the drawings and make Isaac tell their story. Boyd pretty much told him the gist of what he’s been able to figure out over the past eight weeks or so that they’ve known Isaac.

_“So Isaac’s Flash. But he started putting all of us into the story almost immediately.” Boyd switched out with Erica after he finished his argument with Cora, Erica leaving to take orders as the breakfast crowd begins to grow around them, the noise rising and making Boyd’s intense but quiet speech all the more significant when he lays out the paper placemats._

_“I wish I had figured out sooner that he was trying to tell some sort of warped self history. Isaac would just set them back in the pile of other placemats, and we were putting them on the tables. Who knows how many were just thrown out.” Boyd is genuinely upset by the loss it seems, his entire demeanor even more unyielding as he continues._

_“I only noticed about a week after we found him. I saw a table of teenagers pointing excitedly at their placemats and whispering before turning them back over as Cora came by to check on them.” Stiles picks up the first piece of flimsy paper from the stack Boyd explains what he knows. It’s Isaac and Cora as Flash and Wonder Woman, their arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing at something that Isaac didn’t draw into the actual picture._

_“I went over later after they left to find six drawings that took up the entire back of the placemats. They collected them at the end of the table like they thought it was some sort of sponsored thing by the restaurant. I check the stack every morning before Isaac gets here and pull them out. I don’t think he knows that I have them. Or that anyone knows about them.” It seems like that first week of drawings was a lot of Isaac’s past that no one can’t account for, because Boyd knows even less about where Isaac came from than Stiles does._

“What’s your favorite shape?”

The question takes Isaac off guard, just like he’d hoped. It even goes so far as to get the corner of Isaac’s mouth to pull up a bit in the beginnings of a smile. He leans back in the chair, absently rubbing at his face with Stiles’ old Berkeley sweatshirt sleeve, thinking over the answer. Stiles does his best to be patient, questions cropping up like mad while Isaac takes his dear sweet time answering. How did Isaac even end up in his sweatshirt anyways? What the hell happened? He was only at the diner for two hours, three tops.

By the time Isaac answers his face is mostly clear and he gives Stiles a small smile that makes Stiles feel like he miscalculated the number of stairs, his stomach making a small swoop.

“Triangles. Balance I guess.”

Stiles smiles back, happy to see that Isaac can actually give him a straightforward answer when he wants to.

*********************************  
Stiles’ heart stutters over the word triangles, which is illogical to Isaac as he smiles back at Stiles, waiting for him to ask another question. Instead he looks down at the table, spreading his hands out on its surface and curling his fingers to look like claws. He drums his fingers quickly before continuing, glancing at Isaac from time to time as he explains himself.

“Look, I’m supposed to be your… you don’t know what emissaries are yet, never mind. I’m your tour guide to the supernatural okay? Because I did that with Scott.” Stiles stops for some kind of acknowledgement from Isaac and he nods bewilderedly as Stiles continues.

“I can’t teach you any of the-” Stiles waves his hands around Isaac as he gestures to all of him, “actual wolf stuff. That’ll be Scott’s deal when he gets here. Meanwhile I answer your questions and show you how to control the anger.” One of Stiles’ hands reaches to his own neck, rubbing absently where Isaac tried to choke him. Isaac feels a pang of remorse for charging at Stiles when he came home, but he doesn’t want to apologize. Stiles still trapped him, even if it’s pretty clear to Isaac now that it wasn’t on purpose.

“So you’re like my Yoda?”

Isaac doesn’t think he can draw an accurate comparison to describe how Stiles reacts to the statement, somewhere between the intimacies of an inside joke and pure delight.

“Exactly like Yoda. But let’s get out of here first, I’m sick of it in here.”

Stiles heads for the door and leaves Isaac’s drawings behind, looking over his shoulder to see if Isaac is moving or not. Isaac shoves Stiles out of the doorway good-naturedly when he kicks the line of ash, smiling as he walks ahead, waiting for Stiles to catch up Isaac as he leans against the jeep. Stiles keeps going though, walking through the resort in the direction of the lodge where short-term guests stay. Isaac stops staring when he realizes that Stiles won’t wait for him and he runs to catch up with him and he falls just a half a step behind, willing to follow Stiles for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter owes a great debt to [isaacpup](http://isaacpup.tumblr.com), and her unending patience with me and my whining. I also have to thank [Vague_Shadows](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows) for her friendship along with a big general thank you for her dedication and awesomeness.
> 
> I also thought it might be nice to see what the condo looks like, at least in my head. I understand that a lot of people (including myself!) would sometimes rather build the story in their mind than see an actual picture. But if you're interested, I made a post about it [here](http://laheylicker.tumblr.com/tagged/condo-in-the-woods).
> 
> Expect an update in about a week or so :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles begins his vacation with a reluctant Isaac in tow, and they both manage to surprise each other as they begin to cooperate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a happy little chapter that follows one day from beginning to end. Future chapters will move a bit quicker as Stiles continues to drag Isaac on a vacation.

“So where are we going?”

It’s the first thing Isaac has said in the past ten minutes of following Stiles silently, just outside of his peripheral vision. He gets a laugh from Isaac over the surprised jolt that almost lands Stiles in the dirt on their trail.

“You have to have figured out by now that the resort is a ski resort, right?”

Isaac remains silent, and Stiles supposes not. What did Isaac do when he got here? Barricade himself and never leave? Surely he must have noticed everyone showing up for a few weeks at a time to use the small collection of slopes that are just a mile or so away from the resort.

“The skiers in January tipped me off. But that wasn’t an answer.”

Stiles is taken aback by how easy it is to banter with Isaac, with no menacing edge to their exchange. It’s easy to talk to him; easier knowing that not everything Stiles says is going to be taken so seriously. Stiles just grins at Isaac as they continue along the path until they reach the base of the slopes, covered in green instead of white. Only the ski lifts look strange and out of place in such a beautiful picture. Stiles comes to a stop and feels Isaac almost collide with his left shoulder. He looks over to watch Isaac as he stows his hands in his pockets. Apparently Isaac never followed any of the skiers, and hasn’t done a whole lot of exploring.

“Are we hiking it?”

Isaac is looking down at one of his hands, which is pulling the sleeve of his sweatshirt, worrying at it. Why should Isaac be nervous right now? It’s not like he doesn’t have the strength to hike the Bunny Hill, which was Stiles’ plan. The moment passes though as Isaac takes the lead, meandering like a snake up the hill, the tall grasses and mountain flowers bending out of the way of his new-ish combat boots. Stiles keeps his eyes on the ground as he follows, glad that the overgrown greenery is making a clear path so Stiles doesn’t have to give another demonstration of just how much of a danger he is to himself. Just as he begins to realize all over again just how stupid all of last night was, particularly his reaction, Isaac comes to an abrupt stop halfway up.

“We’re not at the top yet.”

Isaac turns to face him, just a little higher up on the mountain. He’s glaring at Stiles which doesn’t make sense since Stiles has barely said anything at all until he realizes the sun is at his back. Isaac is basically blind from this point.

“Your feet.” is all Stiles gets in response. But somewhere deep and warm inside Stiles tells him that it sounded more like “I’m worried about your feet” than a declarative statement of his anatomy. The sentiment is sweet even if Isaac doesn’t say anything outright. It’s pretty much declared in Isaac sitting down on the gradual slope, turned just enough to cut the glare from the sun, clearly waiting for Stiles to join him. Stiles doesn’t know if it’s the early afternoon sun that’s making him feel all comfortable and sleepy or something else, but he flops down next to Isaac, sprawling out on his back to watch the clouds. He angles his head just slightly to have an excellent view of Isaac’s crossed legs and watches Isaac’s fingers run through the grass they’re surrounded by for a few minutes. He just takes in the silence, finding it nice for a change; to be quiet without having to be alone for it to bring any kind of peace.

********************************

                              Art by [isaacpup](http://www.isaacpup.tumblr.com)

Watching Stiles is like watching a wild animal exhibit sometimes, and Isaac smiles at the comparison in his head as Stiles flops himself on to the ground, none too subtly staring at Isaac’s knees. They get to enjoy the sounds of the surrounding forest which Isaac loves until Stiles inevitably breaks the silences. It’s not as irritating as Isaac would have originally thought.

“It’s not an ash line thingy.”

Random, Isaac thinks, his face scrunching up for a second as his hands stall their exploration of the tall grass. He pulls the top of one of the grass blades, thinking before it dawns on him, looking down to the side of Stiles’ head that he can see.

“It’s ash. And in a line.”

Isaac can hear the smile in Stiles’ voice when he answers Isaac’s smart-ass response, even though Stiles continues to address his legs from his prostrate position amongst the grass and the flowers. The flowers begin to lazily accumulate along with the blades of grass in Isaac’s lap as Stiles launches into what seems to be the first lesson of membership in the supernatural community of werewolves. Plants and other things that can incapacitate or kill you.

“The line I set up works like a barrier, you know that.” Stiles stops to run one of his hands through his hair, his face turning away from Isaac’s knees and looking resolutely at the sky. Isaac knows that Stiles knows he can hear the change in heartbeat, but Stiles isn’t exactly hiding the guilt very well from the look on his face. Isaac knows that Stiles looking contrite isn’t something that should make him happy, but it does. Stiles continues after running his hand through his hair one more time, seeming to gather himself to carry on the rest of the conversation. His arm flops down on to his torso and he taps against his own rib cage as he continues.

“Oak trees, or more specifically white oak trees don’t get along with werewolves. I haven’t had Derek or Scott try to hug one or anything, but the ash that comes from white oak trees is what makes the werewolf ‘do not cross’ line.” Stiles grabs for one of the grass blades to the side of his body, letting his fingers twist and play with it as he continues, looking considerably more nervous about the rest of the lesson. Isaac stills his hands and straightens his legs out in an attempt for comfort on the ground, intent on what Stiles is so hesitant to say.

“There’s also the flower wolfsbane. There are plenty of strains and each one is its own special brand of painful, hallucinogenic, or deadly if you’re shot with it. So until I’m sure there’s none around here, best if you just avoid small purple flowers.” Isaac spares a glance to what he’s absently picked, finding mostly small white and yellow flowers, instantly relieved. Isaac doesn’t know if he’s excited or scared out of his mind after knowing all this. It’s not necessarily the ash or the flowers, but rather how Stiles seems to have first hand knowledge of what these plants can do to werewolves, especially the shooting part which Isaac both wants to know everything about and simultaneously never discuss. Instead, Isaac settles for something he hopes will take Stiles out of his nervous shredding of grass blades.

“Is that why your baseball bat made me pass out? It’s made of white oak?”

Stiles finally sits up, the shredded grass falling to the sides, the fresh smell of it making Isaac smile as he stares at Stiles’ green fingertips. When Isaac finally remembers to look up and expect an answer from Stiles, he has the most embarrassing and rage-inducing shit-eating grin on his face and Isaac could punch him if it wasn’t for how suddenly hot everything is. Thank some god somewhere that Stiles doesn’t actually call Isaac out on it, and instead settles into an impressed look as if he hadn’t expected Isaac to catch on so quickly.

“I used to cover it in wolfsbane powder too. I hadn’t needed to cover it all semester. If I was really in fighting shape, you would have been pretty fucked up.” Isaac tries to give Stiles the least grateful smile possible, but finds Stiles staring down the mountain instead. He follows the line of Stiles’ sight and feels very small in a good way as he takes in the sweeping valley and the cozy old resort. Isaac addresses the valley instead of the guy sitting right next to him as he brushes off what’s left of the flowers from the CAL sweatshirt.

 

“Any other plants or trees I should be watching for?” Stiles shrugs in a manner that suggests that as far as he knows Isaac isn’t under any more threat than what he’s mentioned. Isaac watches Stiles leave their position on the mountain, traversing it slowly and thoughtfully.

Stiles turns from his downward trek, shielding his eyes as he looks up to Isaac as they come to a stop. “Well, not as far as we know. Just the mountain ash and the different strains of wolfsbane. But that’s plenty to avoid with just the two.”

***********************************

Stiles is actually getting into the jeep when they finally say something to each other. The silent walk back wasn’t as awkward as Stiles had anticipated, and seeing Isaac outside on the green slopes did wonders for his guilt of having trapped him for several hours. But seeing Isaac’s cheeks streaked in blood raises a whole new file folder of questions that he’s almost too nervous to ask. Isaac is buckling himself in to the passenger side of the jeep, and Stiles is expecting him to ask where they’re going.

“Why do you want to know all this stuff about me?”

Isaac must have been thinking about the past five days, all the questions that suddenly dropped off. Stiles had been hit in the middle of Isaac dodging questions about the dog tags that Isaac isn’t some research study participant. He shouldn’t feel obligated to answer just because they’re stuck together for the foreseeable future.

“Um. Well. You know wolves are pack animals by nature, right?”

Isaac is looking at him like Stiles has asked him if he was aware the sky is blue. So maybe it’s a bit of a round about explanation, but Isaac’s going to need to know this regardless of whether he accepts or not. The drive to Columbia isn’t that long, and Stiles gives Isaac a side-glance as he tries to pull directions up on his phone at the same time.

“Anyways, it’s not like you’re applying to be in our pack, because I’ve kind of already decided you have a spot if you want it. But being in a pack has its benefits.”

Characteristic silence greets him from the passenger seat. Isaac seems like he’s in deep thought as he stares out of the windshield before his hand darts out and plucks the phone out of Stiles’ struggling right hand.

“Tell me where we’re going and I’ll put it in.” Isaac turns the phone in his hands, the screen catching the glint of the sun for a second, blinding Stiles. They only barely swerve, but it’s enough for Isaac to wrap his free hand into the seatbelt and glare at Stiles.

“Should I drive instead? Or are you just planning to kill us?”

“No one drives Roscoe but me.”

“You’re kidding me. No one names a car Roscoe.”

“Yeah, well, I did.”

What was supposed to be a relaxing drive out of the resort turns into a silent standoff until Stiles turns onto an unmarked highway, gradually slowing until he pulls over to the side of the road. They sit together in absolute silence for three of the most uncomfortable and sickening moments of the entire vacation so far.

“Look, Isaac.”

Stiles was trying to go for something close to placating, but if the resolute sneer on Isaac’s face is any indication at all, Stiles is totally failing at all of this. But Isaac is looking at him, despite the crossed arms as he taps Stiles’ phone against his elbow. It’s a monumental effort not to sigh and roll his eyes, but Stiles bravely pushes the impulses aside and attempts to be as sincere as possible.

“We’re gonna be miserable if we keep fighting.” Isaac looks nonplussed by the statement. “I asked Cora to give you some time off.”

This seems to peak Isaac’s interest, and his shoulders fall a bit, even though his arms stay tightly crossed. He’s curious, clearly, but unwilling to break the silence, so Stiles forges on.

“Cora pulled me aside before I left the diner this morning.” It sounds more like a confession than Stiles wants it to be as he remembers her worried eyes as she delivered her own message to Stiles. “She wants you to talk to someone.”

Isaac is now pointedly looking anywhere but Stiles, his fingers running over the phone and looking just as cornered as he did when Cora was holding him against the wall. This conversation is not going anywhere close to what Stiles wanted it to be. He was supposed to get Isaac to trust him, not make him look like he wants to knock Stiles out and make a run for it. He quickly wonders just what’s keeping Isaac here at all, but the thought is gone as he watches Isaac’s eyes settle on his, trying to contain himself and be still.

Stiles didn’t think that Isaac was the type of person to be filled with energy, but Isaac suddenly looks huge and trapped inside his own body, as if he’s trying to fight curling up on himself and losing the battle. Stiles blurts out the first words that come to mind, and of course they don’t make any sense at all.

“I think you’re interesting.”

The statement seems to shock both of them, forcing a nervous laugh out of Isaac, as if he can’t believe anyone would ever think of him in such a context. But it couldn’t be more truthful. Isaac is beautiful, and strange, and the biggest mystery Stiles has ever encountered. There are no easy answers here, and there’s no denying the attraction that Isaac provides with his endless unanswered questions.

Stiles tries for a smile, but Isaac is back to staring at Stiles’ phone, clearly trying to reign himself in from whatever was just about to happen. Isaac speaks more to the phone than to Stiles, seemingly determined to get whatever’s on his mind out even as he continues to cringe, backs himself into the door of the jeep as if trying to put as much distance between the two of them as possible.

“I have questions for you too.”

**************************************

Seeing Stiles’ smile causes the same reaction that Stiles’ hand on his cheek did earlier today, as if he'd been yanked away from falling down a precarious ledge. The jeep isn’t quite as suffocating as it was ten seconds ago, and Isaac releases his death grip on the phone, sparing a longing glance to the trees lining the road. The clank of the driver’s side door startles him from his study of the trees, Stiles already two or three feet in front of the blue hood, heading to the side of the road. Isaac almost falls out of the jeep to follow, desperately excited to be free of it. He meets Stiles on the side of the road, examining him as Stiles examines the blackberry bushes that grow on the sides of all the roads here.

“You’re claustrophobic, aren’t you?” Isaac is a bit surprised that Stiles seems to have only just figured it out now, although Isaac finds room in his shame of the thing to be a bit proud that he managed to hide it for so long. It hadn’t really become a problem outside of the freezer until his dad died. Then suddenly any situation, even in the middle of the forest, could put him on his knees. It’s the most mortifying thing in the world.

“Are you going to ask me why?”

Instead of answering, Stiles turns from the bushes and grabs for Isaac’s hands, a move he wasn’t expecting. Isaac lets Stiles take them even though he knows that Stiles is freaking out about his own reaction to it by the way Stiles drops his own hands away, taking them again hesitantly. He only lets his fingertips linger as he pushes Isaac’s palms together into a small basket of sorts.

“You’ll tell me eventually.” Stiles bends down to pick at the blackberries, filling one palm with the fat black fruits and standing to dump them in Isaac’s waiting hands. Isaac bends down next to Stiles, just holding his hands there as he rests on his heels, grateful that Stiles isn’t going to try and push the subject like everyone else who has figured it out has. When Isaac’s hands are filled with blackberries Stiles rises to brush off his jeans, both of them silently heading back to the jeep about a minute away.

Stiles grabs his phone off the seat as they get settled, Isaac doing his best to watch the berries as he gets back in.

“I thought we should explore and shit, make it a vacation.”

The way Stiles says it is carefully casual, as if he wouldn’t be hurt if Isaac rejected the idea. It might have worked too if Isaac couldn’t hear the nervous flutter of Stiles’ heartbeat. Isaac ducks his head towards his handful of berries, scooping one up with his tongue, delighting in the zing of amazing sweetness as he smiles over to Stiles, talking through the berry.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Stiles reaches over to steal a few berries of his own stuffing them in his face as he types into his phone.

“So,” he begins, “we start our vacation in a classic Stilinski fashion, Columbia.”

Isaac can’t school his reaction quickly enough as his face falls. He’s seen the flyer around town, the tourist brochure in the lobby of the lodge back at the resort. A reenactment gold rush town sounds like the exact opposite of fun or vacation. Stiles takes his reaction with a grin, tossing his phone into Isaac’s lap as he takes off, the GPS directing them in about fifteen minutes to Columbia State Historic Park.

************************************

Columbia had always been a point of contention in his family. His mother would insist that they try and do something educational, and he and his father would argue that there couldn’t possibly be anything left to learn after last year’s visit. And yet, every summer, Stiles found himself melting in the heat, watching other sweaty and grumpy kids get dragged around by over excited parents, eating overpriced meals in fake saloons and being forced through museums detailing the California Gold Rush.

Isaac for the most part has remained silent, doing his best to not completely sneer as they walk together down Main Street, his eyes darting from fading sign to fading sign. Stiles remembers it as a bit bigger and more colorful, but coming back after almost ten years left plenty of time for this place to be embellished in his memory.

Stiles heads into one of the saloons that used to have the amazing ice cream, and as he pushes open the creaking door, a woman in a period dress greets them. The eye roll from Isaac can almost be felt behind him, and Stiles tries his best to non-verbally communicate that Isaac should try and have just a bit of patience.

Their ‘old-time’ sandwiches nice enough, even if Isaac looks like he would rather drive the fork on the table into his thigh than spend another twenty minutes in the kitschy restaurant when Stiles tells their server they totally want to see the dessert menu. Stiles doesn’t know what he’s enjoying more, the memories of him and his father putting up with his mother’s exuberance in this restaurant, or watching Isaac try and fail to find things to look at in the saloon, try to look at anything other than Stiles.

Nothing seems interesting enough and Isaac’s eyes keep slipping back, and Stiles feels a bit smug as their handmade ice cream is delivered. It lasts for about 2.5 seconds though, when the server delivers one dish with two spoons. The mortification on Isaac’s face is surely reflected in Stiles as their grandmother of a server winks at them and retreats before Stiles can clear up the miscommunication.

*************************************************

Stiles raises a daring eyebrow at Isaac, digging into the vanilla ice cream, stuffing his face and daring Isaac to take a bite. He’s not going to back down from the challenge, and they match each other’s smirks until Stiles breaks, laughing and then choking on his ice cream, finally managing a swallow. He swings his spoon to point at Isaac, his smile huge and bright.

“Now that I have you stuck here in this terrible saloon, tell me your thoughts on selfie culture.”

Isaac is taken aback by the question, the total randomness taking him by surprise. He reaches for the ice cream with his spoon, only to find it stolen away, Stiles holding the glass bowl to his chest as he smirks around another spoonful of vanilla.

“Oh no. No avoiding this one.”

He tries for a frown, but the effect is ruined by the smile he can’t quite force away as Stiles continues to stare at him, comically intent on his answer.

“I don’t have a cell phone anymore, so I don’t know. They seem pretty harmless.” Stiles’ face transforms and Isaac feels a little betrayed in the best way. “Oh my god. You don’t give a shit, do you?”

Stiles takes another bite of the quickly dwindling ice cream before Isaac leans across the table and takes it from him, chomping down a huge bite.

“Well, I wouldn’t say I _don’t_ care about your opinion. But you’re right. You’re not very good at the remaining cryptic thing. Why’d you get rid of your phone?”

Isaac would be angry if he wasn’t so impressed by Stiles and his ability to trick answers out of him. He takes his time answering though because Isaac isn’t blind. He can see how impatient Stiles is wherever he goes, tapping his fingers as he tries not to strangle people to get things out of them. Stiles is attempting the same thing now, his spoon tapping on the worn wood of their table, twitching for Isaac’s answer.

“I didn’t need it anymore.”

Stiles looks like he’s going to reach across the table and shake Isaac, but it only serves to make Isaac drag his answer out. He savors the last bite of vanilla, leaning back and setting their dish on the table.

“Careful, Stiles. If you roll your eyes any harder they’re going to fall out of your head.” Isaac smiles at the unexpected memory, Camden’s face clear as day, leaning down to Isaac when he was twelve and in a stupid argument with his older brother.

Composing himself into the perfect picture of long suffering, Stiles lays his arms on the table and threads his fingers together.

“Why didn’t you need it anymore?”

Suddenly the empty ice cream bowl is far more interesting than Stiles’ face. He didn’t think he would ever actually find someone who cared about why he did or did not have a cell phone. Stiles’ face is open and honest though, and Isaac can believe that he does care, even if Isaac doesn’t understand his motivations exactly.

“There was no one left to keep tabs on me. So after freshman year I sold it.” There’s a whole lot more to it than just the cell phone. His dad’s demands that Isaac stop being so selfish and come home to take care of him meant that his dad didn’t need to call him on the cell phone he provided when Isaac left for Southern California. The thing about liver failure is that it takes months. Not just the summer between semesters. And then all the paperwork and funeral arrangements and power of attorney. The loss of his cell phone was the least of his worries.

Although Isaac is prepared for more questions, they never come. Instead, Stiles nods like Isaac just told him the entire history of his experience with electronics. He leaves Isaac behind with the empty dish, paying for lunch before Isaac can protest. Stiles passes by their table on his way out, jerking his head for Isaac to follow, and he does, glad to be free of the creepy, overly white, desolate saloon.

****************************************************

They meander into all of the stores that look interesting to Stiles, and he can’t help feeling a bit guilty as Isaac drags his feet through everything, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Stiles silently thinks that the dark blue of UC Berkeley really suits Isaac, especially as the sun begins to set. The only thing that seems to hold Isaac’s attention at all is the tiny store turned into a museum dedicated to the pony express.

Isaac reads every single card next to the items displayed in the cramped cases, leaning backwards to stare up and squint to the top, moving around to try and move the glare of the lights on the protective glass. Stiles ends up watching Isaac more than paying attention to the flags and saddles and other little trinkets tacked haphazardly to the backs of the museum cases.

It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. How could Isaac be so utterly bored with everything that Columbia has to offer? The only static thing in the entire reenactment town, the dinky museum, holds his attention and bores Stiles to death. Eventually Stiles leaves the open doorway and joins Isaac to stare at the middle of the case along the back wall, tugging lightly at his own sweatshirt sleeve. Isaac is magnificently unaware for a werewolf, almost jumping away from the contact.

“Dude it’s getting dark and we’ve been in here for forty-five minutes.”

Isaac crosses his arms in front of him like he was completely aware of just how much time has passed, but the downward cast of his eyes betrays him.

“Sorry. We can go if you want.”

God, Stiles does want to get out of here. It’s boring and contrite and most of the stuff in the cases is woefully uninteresting. There are far better museums in Sacramento and San Francisco, but Stiles has a feeling that Isaac’s never had a chance to really experience a museum the way he wanted to. Maybe Isaac has a secret love for mid 19th century history?

“It’s fine. I was just going to go over to the leather emporium on the other side of the street. The town is going to close up soon.” Stiles turns to pointedly look out the front door of the museum and alert Isaac to the fact that dusk is upon them. Isaac shrugs in vague acknowledgement of the plan and Stiles heads off to what he remembers as the best store in this somewhat tasteless town.

Stiles is holding two of the vintage leather tooled bags in his hands when Isaac appears behind him, deciding that the best way to alert Stiles to his presence is to pretty much jab him on the shoulder. He’s not as aware of his strength as Stiles would have hoped and what was supposed to be an innocent tap almost knocks him over. Isaac looks sufficiently chastised when Stiles flails forward, careening into a barrel holding a bunch of blank leather key chains that little kids can stamp and decorate.

Instead of allowing Isaac to apologize, Stiles turns and shoves the long straps of the two bags into Isaac, his hands automatically taking them from Stiles despite the perplexed look on his face.

“Which one is Lydia, and which one is Allison?” Isaac jerks his head forward to Stiles and tilts it just a bit in a scarily adorable impression of Jay. Stiles leans against the store shelf, scrubbing a hand over his mouth as he considers the vintage bags. They’ve both got a bit of damage, but the man who owns this shop has done a good job of restoring them.

“Am I supposed to answer or…”

Stiles remembers Isaac all at once, shaking his head as he picks up the smaller and more angular bag, running his fingers over the shiny and warm leather. “Oh. Uh… well no. They’re my friends. I think they were planning on joining me in the condo in about a month or so…” Isaac looks no less confused as Stiles recalls the half-assed plans the pack made a while ago early on in the semester- before the rush of finals and term papers began to kick in. There was loose agreement all around that the pack would show up if they could. Bear Valley is close but not too close to home, a nice vacation and still a safe place to catch up on pack bonding and similar enough to their old stomping grounds.

Isaac is holding the larger more spartan bag between his own hands now, looking down at it, turning it from side to side, picking up on all the small repairs.

“They’re your friends?”

“Yeah. But pack too.” Isaac seems surprised at the information, and Stiles remembers that Isaac still doesn’t understand the distinction. “For right now, yes. They’re good friends of mine.”

Isaac reaches out and takes the other purse from Stiles, looking at it briefly before glancing back at Stiles, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I think they’ll like them. They’re both equally interesting I guess,” Isaac’s gaze flits from one bag to the other in his opposite hand, “but I’m kind of hungry. Are we leaving after this?”

Stiles relieves Isaac of the purses since he looks so totally out of his element buying a present for anyone, much less a girl. As they pay at the register in the back of the store, Stiles leans one elbow on the counter as his credit card is being manually typed into the ancient grey computer by an equally ancient old man.

“So is the California Gold Rush experience everything you’ve ever dreamed?” Stiles startles Isaac from his careful inspection of the finely beaded necklaces, the blue and yellow design falling back into the basket as he beams down at Stiles’ awkward position on the counter.

“It’s a once in a lifetime experience.” Isaac’s shit-eating grin matches Stiles’ own and he continues on, watching the old man covered in leather clothing carefully wrap the bags up in tissue paper. “As in I’ve done it once, and that’s enough for a lifetime.”

**********************************************

Isaac isn’t surprised at all when they get home and find that there’s nothing left over in the fridge for them to eat. Usually Isaac spends all his time on his days off making food that will last him the week. It serves his lazy tendencies, and if he gets it done all at once then he doesn’t have to worry about it throughout the week. The first three months in the cabin there wasn’t any electricity, only gas and water. It meant that the stove and fireplace worked though. It was irritating as fuck to cook every day, but the lack of electricity in the unit made him feel like the place was just abandoned enough to hide out in.

Stiles is standing forlornly in front of the fridge, components of food all there, but apparently lacking the skill or motivation to put something together.

“We’re gonna starve.”

Isaac comes to join him next to the open door, looking in to find what he already suspected. The five days of no sleep and general inattention on Isaac’s part plus having two people in the condo have demolished anything that would be left for them to eat.

“Well, I mean there’s enough for spaghetti or something like that…” Isaac trails off as he leaves Stiles to continue his desolate staring competition with the empty fridge. He pulls the package of spaghetti out of the cabinet close to the stovetop, searching around for a bottle of sauce that he bought about a month ago but could never justify opening for just himself.

Stiles picks it up when he sets it on the counter, and he looks somewhat mystified by the whole thing. Isaac fills the huge old silver pot with water and watches Stiles out of the corner of his eye.

“Do you know how to heat it up?” Stiles gingerly returns the jar to the counter at the question, startled as Isaac clangs the pot of water on to the stove and turns to regard him.

“Scott and I set cookies on fire once. I stick to the microwave mostly.” Isaac considers walking Stiles through opening a jar and pouring it in a pot and heating it up, but it sounds patronizing just plotting it out in his head so he bites his tongue and does it himself. Stiles seems to buffer in the middle of the kitchen, considering action but unsure where he could screw things up the least. Eventually he retreats to the dining table and watches Isaac instead.

Spaghetti isn’t labor intensive, but it is kind of time consuming. Isaac’s hip hits the edge of the stove as he pushes lazily at the softening pasta with the wooden spoon, observing Stiles. He’s absorbed in writing something out on his phone, the light hanging over the dining table illuminating his face in a warm and inviting light. He catches himself staring before Stiles can, and clears his throat, bringing Stiles up from his phone in the process.

“Are Allison and Lydia werewolves too?

Stiles snorts at the suggestion, flipping his phone to lay face down on the dining table. “Since the food’s going to take a while, want me to explain?”

Isaac looks back to the two pots, stirring each of them a bit before setting a timer on the microwave and joining Stiles at the table. Stiles starts in without invitation or confirmation from Isaac, and his rambling is mesmerizing. He ends up lost somewhere between the emphasis of Stiles’ fingers dancing through the air and his bright eyes, filled with excitement at the fact that he has a captive audience.

*******************************************

“The way we do it is family style, I guess. We haven’t encountered another pack, but from what I can tell the way we do it is pretty rare.”

It appears that Isaac is paying attention, but it’s hard to tell since his gaze will snap away from Stiles and back to the food every minute or so. Stiles decides to continue though, since it would seem that Isaac pays more attention than he had initially realized. When Isaac glances back, Stiles continues to try and order his thoughts on the pack versus family debate as the kitchen begins to waft an amazing smell into the rest of the condo.

“There are three werewolves actually in the pack. Scott, who’s coming here to help you when he’s done with interterm. Then there’s Jackson who is of no help to anyone, ever. And the... well. Derek. Who’s the leader. But there’s also the three humans. That’s who Allison and Lydia are, adopted not-quite-werewolves like me.”

By the time Stiles has rounded out the basic descriptions of the pack without all the extra back-story that Isaac should definitely know at some point, Isaac has already left for the kitchen to get their food together and made it back to Stiles. He stands and stares at Stiles for a bit with both his hands holding loaded plates, waiting for Stiles make some sort of indication he’s done talking for now. When Stiles falls silent and looks excitedly to the loaded plates Isaac sits, scooting the plate in his left hand towards Stiles, offering a shy smile to the table.

Stiles has never been one to change his manners for present company, and Isaac is no exception. “God. Isaac.” He manages the rest of his massive clump of spaghetti into his mouth, unsure if he wants to keep the memory of this first bite forever or try and eat as much of this heaven as quickly as possible.

Isaac seems somewhat superior as he eats in a much more dignified manner, and it seems to Stiles that Isaac is spending more time staring Stiles than he is actually eating any of his own dinner. Which is a damn shame, because Isaac might as well be filming for some kind of kinky amateur porn site. It's truly unfortunate that Isaac catches on for the last second of Stiles’ own staring with his mouth full, swallowing his food exceptionally slow as Stiles is forced to watch Isaac’s neck in an attempt to save himself from embarrassment. The entire thing is to no avail, and Stiles feels like he’s swallowing a baseball when Isaac actually ducks down to meet his eyes, the most teasing of eyes meeting his.

************************************

It’s a triumph really that Isaac manages not to tell Stiles that his eyes are up here, thank you very much, but the reward of Stiles’ blush is plenty of compensation for holding his tongue. It’s useful to know that Stiles can be distracted, and that Isaac is a good object for it. He decides that the information that he was about to get is more important than the fun he could have at the other guy’s expense, so he just drags Stiles back to the matter at hand.

“What makes them different than just family?”

The nice thing about Stiles is that he seems to be able to just run away with a topic, talk on and on about it with minimal prompting. At some point their plates are cleared and Isaac has learned that the ‘Hale Pack’ as Stiles has coined it, is vaguely incestuous for being a family of sorts.

“So what about you then?” Stiles seems taken aback by the question and then hyperbolically offended, shifting in his seat and leaving his fork on his empty plate, pushing it away stubbornly with his pointer finger.

“I don’t know Isaac, why don’t you tell me your entire sexual history in exchange? It’s only fair.”

Isaac sees his point, because he wants to reveal his history even less than Stiles does apparently. And from the way Stiles is acting it clearly ended badly, whatever history he’s had in the past. In the back of his mind Isaac considers that Stiles followed the mildly incestuous path that the rest of his family/friends/pack have taken and his involvement either broke up some part of the Lydia and Jackson deal or made things very awkward for his best friend. Maybe he hooked up with his best friend’s girlfriend? Isaac thoughtfully considers Stiles’ mesmerization with Isaac’s mouth and is forced to consider that it might have been one of the three wolves instead.

Either way he doesn’t dignify the retort with an answer, stacking up the plates and silverware and setting them in front of Stiles neatly.

“I made dinner. You clean it up.”

Stiles seems relieved for the change of topic, but the stilted silence that follows them as they get up from the table suggests that they’re going to have a tough time starting up conversation again. It was equally stupid on both of their parts to jump to such shitty questions. Well, not shitty. Personal. Isaac considers picking out another video but instead decides to sneak back downstairs, leave the basement door open for whenever Jay decides to return from her wild escapades. He slinks around the hallway trying to be as inconspicuous as he catches a glimpse of the back of Stiles, the toe of one of his sneakers kicking the linoleum floor as he washes the dishes.

“I’m going down to leave the door open for Jay.” Isaac receives a head bob in reply, and he remembers half way down the stairs that Stiles has been on his feet all day. The feet that were cut up just last night. He continues to replay the whole ordeal as he retreats from the back bedroom, the cool breeze at his back as he reemerges to the main floor, finding Stiles on the couch with his laptop, the chime of a sent email ringing through.

They stare at each other for a second before Isaac squashes the opportunity for further awkwardness. “How are your feet?”

Stiles peers around his screen, observing his propped up feet now freed from the sneakers that lay haphazardly to the side of the coffee table.

“Oh. Uh yeah. Maybe I shouldn’t have walked so much?” Stiles shrugs, returning to his computer, his face somewhat determined as it’s illuminated by the screen. Isaac stays where he is, unsure what their next move should be. Isaac can’t pretend to sleep downstairs anymore, and he also doesn’t want to have to explain why. Stiles is going to continue his quest for answers, it’ll be forced out of him eventually.

In the middle of Isaac’s fretting, Stiles flips his black laptop closed before abandoning it to the narrow gap between the couch and points at the cabinet underneath the TV. “So what’ll it be?” Isaac wants to ask if Stiles is okay, if his feet are okay and if Isaac should use the black veins healing thing again, but he also doesn’t want to insult Stiles if he’s attempting a macho ignorance of pain.

“I like animation but I was hoping we could see something else?” Isaac asks as he wanders back to the kitchen, messing up Stiles’ earlier meticulous efforts of cleaning as he starts popping popcorn in a pan with some oil and salt.

“Did you have anything in mind? Like, action movie or sci-fi or…” Stiles trails off, waiting for suggestion.

“I never got all the way through The Matrix. Can you find it?” Isaac hears the laptop click open again, short bursts of keystrokes the only answer he can hear from the popping by the stove. By the time Isaac returns to the couch with the popcorn, the laptop is sitting on the coffee table, Stiles curled up slightly off center.

“I would apologize for the shitty quality,” Stiles’ gaze drifts to the old glass TV tucked away in the shelving, “but this is way better than that thing.”

***************************************  
Isaac nods as he sits, curling his legs. It doesn’t seem like Isaac had anticipated someone else on the middle cushion, and his own added weight tips Stiles into him by accident as he settles with the popcorn. Their shoulders only barely touch but Stiles can feel Isaac stop breathing, and it sets Stiles on edge too.

Stiles jerks away just hard enough to almost upset the popcorn bowl, and Isaac’s knuckles turn white they’re gripping the old red plastic so hard. Stiles isn’t sure how it happens, but Isaac manages to keep all the popcorn inside the bowl, even as he tries to subtly get up and move to the far end of the couch. Stiles is having none of that, Isaac’s going to have to get used to human contact if he’s going to ever give being in the pack a shot. He grabs hold of the edge of the bowl, slowly pulling it between them. His fingers brush over the fading white paint pen on the sides, the bright lettering declaring POPCORN! with several kernel shaped sheep decorating around it.

“It was my mom’s.” Isaac seems confused by the soft confession until he looks down at the bowl tensely placed between them, nodding slowly before looking back at Stiles.

“I found it in the cabinet above the stove hood. Kind of a weird place, and filled with a bunch of other…uh...”

“Random shit? Yeah. It’s where I put all of my mom’s stuff to keep it away from… well. I guess just to keep it.”

Stiles shouldn’t expect Isaac to connect the dots so quickly, because in reality Stiles has left the barest of hints. Isaac shouldn’t have to fill in all the holes himself, so Stiles angles himself towards Isaac and just says what’s been echoing in his mind since the whole mug incident went down.

“It was my mom’s mug. She died.”

After seeing Isaac with that wild terror in his eyes this morning, Stiles is anticipating a big reaction, either of incredible guilt or sickening pity. But Isaac lets his iron grip on the bowl go instead, his face generally soft and unreadable. Perhaps Stiles should stop trying to predict Isaac and just pay attention to him instead. He lays one arm around his torso in a move that might be interpreted by some as trying to hug himself, and his index finger traces the collar of the Berkeley sweatshirt.

“I’m sorry about your mom.” It looks like Isaac was about to say more, offer some kind of condolence or advice, but instead of offering anything, his finger dips inside the collar to let the metal bead chain poke out a little before letting it fall back under, clearly calling attention to it but unsure what to say. He reaches out and hits the space bar, the title scene flashing as green ones and zeros flash down the black background.

“Camden’s my brother. He was killed. It’s just me now.” Isaac looks down at the bowl and grabs some popcorn, occupying his mouth in a clear sign that he’s done talking for now. It’s really not fair because all of the shit that Isaac just fits into common little sentences causes so many questions Stiles is going to have to start taking notes on his phone. He opens his mouth to at least get one question in about where his parents are, and then the movie actually starts. Fucker.

Isaac looks incredibly pleased with himself as he swallows, glancing at Stiles in his periphery as if he’s just won the ‘be as cryptic as possible’ competition in the most self-satisfied and asshole-ish of ways. Isaac stage whispers to Stiles as he grabs for more popcorn.

“Shut up, Stiles, we’re watching a movie.”

He hasn’t even said anything yet, and he turns away from Isaac to resolutely stare at the movie, snapping his jaw shut once he realizes what Isaac was pointing out.

***********  
Keanu Reeves is in the middle of learning karate inside the simulated matrix when Stiles starts to play with the frayed edges of the bandages on his feet, grimacing at last night’s leftover damage. He’s doing his best to subtly unwrap them and let them breathe, but he can feel Isaac’s eyes on his back as the movie continues on.

He turns around again to find Isaac’s hand hovering inside the popcorn bowl, watching him intently, and a careful expression of neutrality greeting him.

“You can try it if you want.” Stiles tries for an encouraging demeanor, but it’s apparently not enough to prompt Isaac to action, his cheeks turning pink before turning away from Stiles and back to the movie. Isaac startles at hearing Keanu slammed to the ground of the dojo by Laurence Fishburne, and Stiles seizes his opportunity, pulling Isaac’s hand out of the popcorn bowl.

Isaac tries to jerk away, but Stiles manages to successfully transfer Isaac’s stiff fingers to his shoulder, using the other guy’s fingers to push the t-shirt out of the way so the healing works properly. The rush of relief from the dull ache makes him drowsy almost immediately as he releases a gratified sigh, and he doesn’t feel completely awake for the rest of the movie. He barely even takes note of Isaac’s relaxing fingers, how they slowly trickle downwards as the movie passes. The last thing Stiles remembers before he drifts completely away is Isaac’s hand resting comfortably in the bend of his arm.

***************************

Jay’s thumping tail pulls Isaac just far enough out of his sleep to prepare himself for the sudden lick that his free hand receives. Isaac opens his eyes to find nothing but a torrent website staring blankly back at him, the popcorn bowl placed primly to the side of it. Isaac must’ve done that, but he doesn’t remember the end of the movie. For that matter, he doesn’t remember how he wound up here, half his face numb from resting on Stiles’ boney shoulder.

Isaac doesn’t pull away from the contact immediately, his eyes following the hand not being nudged by Jay and finds it curled around Stiles, as if he was trying to pull them together. He carefully moves away, Stiles’ peaceful face turning away to rest on the back of the couch instead of the top of Isaac’s head. He uncurls his too hot hand, rubbing it over his tingling face, smiling down at Jay, who seems happy to be back from her daily adventures.

It’s only a few minutes past midnight, but with the long day they had, it certainly feels like four in the morning. Jay barks happily at him when he ruffles her head, pushing her ears around. Isaac laughs softly as he shushes Jay, nodding over to Stiles who seems completely unphazed by the little outburst.

“Should we leave him here Jay? Go sleep in our bed?” Jay shoots up the loft stairs in response, the springs creaking from her leap. Isaac is almost to the top of the loft when he casts a final gaze over the living room, Stiles awkwardly slumped in the middle of the couch.

Isaac’s sigh isn’t as put-upon as he would like to believe when he grabs the quilt from the bed upstairs, making his way back down. Initially the plan was just to throw the blanket over him and be done with it, but the crease between Stiles’ eyes moves Isaac to just enough pity. Stiles is easily guided down to the actual cushions, curling up against the sudden temperature change. Isaac does throw the quilt over him, but it really doesn’t look all that more comfortable.

The CAL sweatshirt and the really dirty Mel’s Diner shirt make a nice pillow, and just before leaving Stiles alone, Isaac bends to Stiles’ laptop, typing out a quick message.

**************************************

The first thing Stiles sees when he peeks out from around the quilt is his laptop, a word document open with large bright orange font offending his eyes.

“I’m in my bed upstairs with Jay.”

Stiles can almost hear the other message that wasn’t typed out but couldn’t be clearer. Isaac doesn’t have any intentions of running off. He meanders up the loft as the sun starts to stream through the large window above his bed.

Shirtless. Isaac is shirtless. The appreciative moan that escapes Stiles is greeted by Jay’s bark on the other side of the queen mattress. Isaac stirs from the commotion, and Stiles beckons Jay out of the loft before anything else can go wrong.

“Jay, c’mere! Let’s go!” Her ears perk and she trots over to Stiles a few stairs from the top, licking his hands as he goes to pet her. Isaac seems pretty bleary which is fortunate for Stiles and his tomato red face, and he spends as little time possible looking at Isaac’s gorgeous body before croaking out that he’s going on a walk with Jay.

Jay is already out the front door when Stiles remembers to break the line of mountain ash, considering for a second just getting rid of it for the time being.

“Come join us whenever.”

Isaac doesn’t yell at the top of his lungs as per usual, instead the mumbling sounds drifting down from the loft seem to indicate that he has every intention of going back to sleep. Stiles clicks the door shut, leaving him in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said a week but I'm a liar and I ended up caught up in several real life things.
> 
> Where would this story be without the encouragement of [Isaacpup](http://www.isaacpup.tumblr.com)? I'll tell you where, sitting abandoned on my hard drive. Thank you for keeping me going.
> 
> Of course there's [Vague_Shadows](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows) who is such a role model to me. If she can write such amazing things (go read it right now, seriously) then surely I can finish this.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, guys. Next update should be way faster because the semester is done now :)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome everyone! This is going to be my summer project. I can't promise any sort of regular updates. As always, I welcome all suggestions, questions, and criticisms. This is my first story that will reach over 5k, and I'm totally willing to talk with you about this story and where its going. I'm always waiting to talk on [tumblr](http://www.laheylicker.tumblr.com/ask).


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